The Long Goodbye
by A-blackwinged-bird
Summary: PreSeason 2. The boys lose their father under very different circumstances. Multichapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Long Goodbye

**Author**: BlackWingedbird

**Betas**: Amy and Carikube

**Rating**: R (language)

**Author's Notes**: My deepest gratitude goes to Amy and Carikube. Amy not only trusted me to write this story, but also had the patience to beta it months later. This story takes place before Season 2. John Deathfic.

* * *

It came upon them slowly and silently, as all skillful predators do. Fingers like black roots burrowed deeply and firmly, moving so slowly and delicately that none of them felt it happening. It waited; long, thin fingers of poison bracing itself for the moment it would seize- and rip them apart.

o0O0o

AUGUST

The Impala slid to a stop next to the old black truck, the tires screaming as Sam was pitched towards the windshield. He caught himself on the dashboard, locking his elbows as his head fell forward, and he cursed- the expletive lost under the bass notes pounding from the speaker. Then the car rocked backwards hard, and Sam let himself fall back against the seat. He drew in a deep breath and looked up, finding John Winchester standing only inches from the Impala's front bumper, dust and fumes swirling around him in the light of the headlights. Sam coughed, waving a hand to dispel the dust that had floated in through the open windows.

Dean shoved the gear shift up into 'park' and killed the engine, prematurely silencing 'Jukebox Hero'. "Dad- what the hell!" he shouted, running a trembling hand over his head. "Don't stand in front of me like that!"

John lifted the shotgun so it rested over his shoulder, his face neutral and hard in the faint light of the moon. "Come on, we need to move."

They were out of the car instantly, moving to the trunk. Humidity made the air thick and sticky, pressing down upon them, suffocating; it was less than ideal for zombie-hunting and quick escapes. But as Sam knew very well, life was hardly ever ideal.

Dean opened the trunk then lifted the false bottom and secured it. The array of weapons glittered in the moonlight. They moved together, Dean grabbing two guns as Sam took the flashlights. As Sam clicked them on, Dean shoved one gun- a 9 mm- in the waistband of his pants and he held the other out to Sam. Sam took it, trading a flashlight for the weapon, and shoved the cold steel muzzle under his belt at the small of his back. The weight of it was familiar and reassuring, and oddly, Sam felt completed.

He looked to his father for instruction. "What's the plan?"

John opened his mouth, and then hesitated. "We'll, uh, we'll do what we did that time in Utah, when we took out that family of zombies in the trailer home."

"The Winchester Special," Dean affirmed with a slight nod. "My first official battle strategy."

"Yeah," John grunted. "That one."

"Remember the picture you drew?" Sam teased. "My favorite part was the rainbow-colored stick people."

"It doesn't matter what color his people were," John said. "The plan worked. Now quiet down. We got a job to do." He grabbed a dark colored duffle bag from his own truck as Dean closed the Impala's trunk. The brothers turned, the beams of the high-powered flashlights piercing the surrounding night, and looked to their father.

"You boys ready?" John asked, shouldering the bag.

"Yes sir," they replied simultaneously. Sam's heart beat hard with anticipation.

"All right then, fall in."

They abandoned the vehicles and walked into the woods, using the flashlights to guide their way. John took the lead and Sam brought up the rear, his gun out and held tightly under the flashlight. The old farmhouse loomed a quarter of a mile away, situated at the end of the gravel driveway they were walking. "There's three of them, right?" he murmured, watching the tree line for movement.

"Kyle said there was three last night- doesn't mean more haven't turned since then." John kept marching, his stride never faltering. "Look sharp. They're not fast, but one bite is all it takes."

Sam ducked under a fallen branch, quickly reorienting himself as he righted. Gravel crunched under his feet. He searched the tree line on either side, then turned and walking backwards a few steps, making sure nothing was crept up on them- 'Watching their sixes', in marine lingo. Satisfied their arrival was still unknown, he turned back around.

"Lights off," John said, holding up a hand.

The farmhouse loomed in the distance. Sam couldn't suppress a shiver of excitement. He clicked off the flashlight and stuck it in his back pocket, readjusting his grip on the gun. They continued forward in darkness.

John stopped one hundred feet from the house. Sam and Dean got close, being careful to stay in the shadows. To the left, a tire swing dangled forlornly from a large tree, unmoving in the humid air.

John nodded towards the house. "Dean, you're on."

Dean looked at his watch. "Five minutes, remember?" He looked from John to Sam.

Sam raised his wrist, setting the timer on his own watch. "Five minutes."

Dean nodded then pocketed his gun with a cocky smile. "Meet back here for the fireworks."

Sam watched him go, swaggering up to the farmhouse like he had all the confidence in the world. Which, knowing Dean, he probably did.

"Here, get ready," John said lowly, holding the duffle bag out to Sam.

Sam took it wordlessly then returned his attention to his brother.

Dean bounced up the wooden steps and stopped, facing the front door. He raised his fist and knocked, loudly.

"Hello! Papa Murphy's Pizza Delivery! Anyone order the zombie special?"

As expected, the door burst open and Mr. Patterson's pale, rotting face appeared, glaring at Dean.

"Boo," Dean grinned.

Then he took off running.

Mr. Patterson lashed out and missed, then growled. He stumbled into the moonlight, clunking down the old wooden steps on stiff legs with his arms out before him. A simple gold wedding band glinted in the moonlight as he moved and moments later, Mrs. Patterson teetered outside. Her floor-length cotton dress was dirty and ripped, her hair missing in large patches. Her once soft skin was green and peeling from her bones. She followed her husband with determination, cold dead eyes locked on Dean's back. Sam wondered for a moment what her dreams had been, how many children she wanted, what her goals were.

The postman joined the chase last, the freshest body of the three. The mail carrier emblem was still recognizable on his shirt and hat. Dean jogged, moving fast enough to evade their capture but slow enough to keep them coming. His flashlight was on and a small ball of white light bobbed over the ground, getting smaller as Dean led them away.

"Now Sam, go!" John urged from beside him, and Sam leapt out into the front yard. Dean led the zombies into the woods and Sam sprinted to the abandoned house, John close behind. He jogged up the stairs, the duffle bag thumping against his thigh, and moved through the doorway.

The house smelled like rotting flesh and Sam gagged, coughing into the crook of his elbow.

"This way," John said, brushing past.

Sam followed his father, not questioning how the man knew his way around the strange house. John Winchester just knew these things.

They went through the kitchen, stopping at a white door. John aimed the shotgun as he pulled open the door. A set of stairs led down into a thick, musty blackness. "This way," John said, lowering the shotgun as he started down.

Sam followed quickly, well aware of the watch on his wrist and the numbers it ticked away.

The smell of mold grew stronger, as if the air down here hadn't been breathed in for a long time. While it wasn't pleasant, Sam preferred this odor over the nauseating stench upstairs. His foot hit concrete and Sam spared a moment to glance around, getting his bearings.

One small window, covered in dust and spider webs above a stack of wooden crates, filtered the moonlight streaming in. In the corner, an old, iron wood burning furnace sat against the wall. Large cardboard boxes lined the far wall, each labeled in black marker for a room upstairs. The handwriting was large and loopy and as he moved to the center of the room, Sam imagined Mrs. Patterson showing her husband where to set the boxes.

John stood beside a support beam. "Sam, toss me the dynamite."

Sam dropped the bag, catching it before it hit the floor. Being a Marine had enabled John to establish contacts with trustworthy weaponry dealers. So when Dean was younger and presented their father with his first hand-drawn game plan to take out a large group of zombies, John went out the next day and returned with the requested supply of explosives. Dean's eyes lit up and that night, they put the plan into action. It worked flawlessly and even earned its own code name: the 'Winchester Special'.

Even Sam had to admit, blowing up houses- while the zombies were inside- was pretty cool.

Sam bent over and unzipped the bag. He reached in, once more conscious of the time then paused.

"Uh, Dad?" This couldn't be right. Sam dug deeper, finding nothing but their father's clothes inside.

"Sam, on the double!" John growled impatiently.

Sam's chest tightened with fear. "There's nothing in here," he said, his fingertips scraping the bottom of the bag over and over. Nothing but clothes. He'd been too preoccupied to notice the difference.

"What do you mean, there's nothing in there?" John replied with annoyance, abandoning the post and moving towards Sam.

Sam thrust a white t-shirt at his father. "It's just clothes- There's nothing else in here!" He dropped the shirt, glancing at his watch. Shit. They only had forty seconds before Dean would be back, angry zombies in tow.

John snatched the bag and clawed through the contents, a scowl deep on his face. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, then threw the bag aside. "Fuck."

"What do we do?" Sam asked. His heart hammered in sync with his watch.

"Stay calm," John ordered, running a hand through his hair. "We gotta get out of here. If they come back and we're trapped down here…"

Heavy pounding sounded over their heads. "Honey, I'm home," Dean shouted.

Sam looked up as dust sprinkled down, glittering in the moonlight. It started at one end of the basement and quickly spread forwards as Dean moved above them.

"Let's go," John ordered, grabbing Sam by the elbow and pushing him towards the stairs. "Move!"

Sam didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled up the filthy stairs, determined to beat the group of zombies to the top. He crested the stairs just in time to see Dean disappear around the corner, heading towards the back door.

He was one step inside the kitchen when the zombies appeared, moving rather quickly for decomposing lumps of flesh. He skidded to a stop. Dean would barricade the back door as soon as he was through it, so he couldn't go that way. And three groaning, hungry, angry zombies bore down from the other direction. He was trapped.

"Back down!" John shouted, pulling on the fabric between Sam's shoulder blades.

Sam stumbled as he backpedaled, ducking out of the doorway just as a large hand with yellow fingernails swiped at him. He flew down the stairs, breathing hard through his mouth. Behind him, the zombies followed.

"Here," John yelled, firing the shotgun at the small window, shattering the glass. "Get out and get Dean," he said as he kicked the stack of wooden crates closer to the wall. "Go, Sam!"

Sam leapt on the boxes, his legs wobbly as he fought for balance. He reached up, grabbing a hold of the window ledge and ignored the bite and sting from the shards of glass. He jumped, propelling his head through the window and clawing for a better hold in the overgrown weeds outside. His shoes scrabbled over the concrete wall before meeting resistance, and then Sam pushed himself completely through the window.

"Dean!" he yelled, even as he spun around to help his father.

John stood on the boxes, his arms through the window. He dropped the shotgun onto the ground and Sam reached for him, rocking back on his haunches and bracing his feet against a thick tree root. His hands burned when he gripped John's wrists and he fell back, the blood coating them acting as a lubricant.

"Sam!"

Sam cursed and pushed himself up. He could see the zombies behind his father and he scrambled forward, reaching out again and grabbing his father's shirt sleeves instead. He leaned back, pulling with all his strength as John struggled. He felt the gun in the small of his back but reaching for it would mean sacrificing his father. "Dean- Now!"

The zombie-postman grabbed a hold of John's foot and both men slipped forward as John kicked out. The zombie fell back, his tattered blue postal cap falling from his matted hair, and Sam gave one hard tug, finally heaving John through the window.

John grabbed the shotgun and spun, facing the window with his weapon aimed. Sam reached for his own and together, father and son slew the advancing zombies.

Moments later, zombies littered the cold concrete floor, unmoving. Gunpowder and sweat hung heavy in the air and the simple chirping of crickets echoed around them. Sam lowered his weapon, panting. He looked at John.

John's nostrils flared as he breathed. After a moment, he glanced at Sam. "God damn. Good shooting, Sammy."

Sam looked at him incredulously.

"Sam! Dad!" Dean came crashing through the woods at the backs. "I heard the shots- what happened? What about the plan?"

"Why don't you ask Dad," Sam muttered, bringing up his hands to examine them. They stung horribly and he could feel the glass embedded in his skin.

"Jesus, Sam- what happened?" Dean bent down, grabbing Sam's right wrist and shined the flashlight on it. The thick blood sparkled.

John pushed to his feet. "Come on, we'll take care of that back at the motel," he said, brushing off his jeans. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"We need to torch it first," Sam said, and then he hissed in pain as Dean probed too hard. "Get away," he snapped, pulling his hands out of Dean's grasp.

Dean glared then rose to his feet as well. "What happened in there, Dad? Why aren't I watching pieces of zombie guts fall from the sky right now?"

"It's nothing, Dean," John snapped, staring at the broken window.

Sam stood, feeling his face getting hot. His curled his hands into fists, reveling in the pain. "Nothing? You almost got turned, Dad. What if that thing had gotten a hold of you?"

John spun to face him. "Knock it off, Sam. Nothing happened."

Dean cut in. "Uh- hello? Someone mind telling me what's going on?"

Sam whipped around. "Dad brought the wrong bag, that's what's going on. There was no dynamite, just clothes." He glared at John, his jaw clenched.

Dean's body tensed in shock. "Dad?"

John turned away, starting for the vehicles. "Dean- don't. I'm fine, Sam's fine, and the zombies are dead." Under his breath, he mumbled, "Mistake."

They followed on his heels. "But you don't make mistakes," Dean shot back. "Ever."

"Well, tonight I did, okay?!" John's shoulders tensed and his arms hung stiffly at his sides. "Now I'm telling you- drop it!"

Sam moved in front of Dean, his body still humming with adrenaline. "What's with you? You're the one always telling us to stay on top of our game, always stay sharp. We almost died back there!"

John stopped and spun on his heel, jabbing a finger in Sam's face. "You watch your mouth," he growled. "Don't tell _me_ about the dangers of this job. I do not need a lecture from _you_ about staying on top of the game!"

Sam clenched his jaw, recognizing the feral look in his father's eyes. As much as he wanted to, arguing now would be pointless. The older man was a brick wall; Sam could beat against it until his fists were bloody and it would do no good.

They stared at each other a moment longer before Sam blinked and looked away. "Yes sir."

"Good," John said simply, and then he turned and continued back to the vehicles.

Sam and Dean followed without a word. He hadn't changed his mind- something was definitely off with their father, like he was distracted or his head is not in the game. This forgetfulness had steadily been getting worse in the past few weeks. Several times, he'd forgotten the names of the people they talked to. He woke up at odd times in the night and watched TV till morning. Sam couldn't understand it- the anniversary of Mary's death wasn't for months. If Dean noticed, he hadn't said anything.

The crickets came to a crescendo then, the noise deafening him. Sam took a deep breath, pushing down his anger. Ahead of them, John had already started the truck and Sam stared at the glowing brake lights. Something was bothering his father and until he got it straightened out, Sam would stay out of the way.


	2. Chapter 2

NOVEMBER

"Go to hell, Sam."

"Come on Dean, just listen to me. I really think something's wrong with Dad."

Dean pressed harder on the Impala's accelerator. Maybe if he went fast enough, he would leave Sam behind. "No there's not. He's fine."

Sam stared at him, boring a hole into the side of Dean's head. "He hasn't been himself for a long time now and you know it. It started with the zombies in Iowa, remember?"

Dean ran a hand over his head, trying to school his anger. "You're still bitching about that? It was four freaking months ago, Sam! Get over it!" His shoulders tensed painfully and his knuckles turned white as they curved over the steering wheel.

Why demanding explanations Dean didn't want to think about?

Outside, pools of light slid over the black car as they passed under the streetlights. It was late and the roads were dark and empty. The Impala's engine rumbled loudly in the deserted streets.

Sam was staring at him. "He brought the _wrong bag_," he said slowly, the words icy. "We could have died in that basement. We would have become zombies and you would have had to blow our brains out. Literally. You don't think there's anything _wrong_ with that?"

Dean flinched and quickly turned towards away, pretending to read the street signs. "So he's been preoccupied for a couple weeks. We just visited Mom. Give the guy a break."

"We visited Mom a few weeks ago. The zombie incident was a long time before that."

Dean lifted his hand from the steering wheel in exasperation. "What do you want me to say, Sam? Maybe Dad is just in a mood- you know, like the thing you're always in."

"Why are you defending him?" Sam raised his voice, his shoulders high and tight. "Dad only has one mood, and it's 'hunt'." He looked away, his own words seeming to upset him further. When he looked back to Dean, his expression was hard. "Talk to him. Figure out what the hell is wrong with him and fix it before he costs us a job."

"Dad's not the _talking_ kind of guy, Sam."

"So make him. He always listens to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what is sounds like. Come on, Dean- it's obvious that your opinion is always more valid than mine."

"That is such bullshit," he grumbled, feeling a headache begin to blossom behind his eyes. "Just stop talking, okay? Stop before you say something stupid. You're acting like an 18 year-old hormonal brat."

Sam opened his mouth to reply but Dean cut him off. "Look, we're here. Can you try and pretend to be nice, just until we get back to the motel?"

Dean turned the car onto the dark street. Sam crossed his arms. "Fine. Whatever."

Up ahead, John was waiting by the truck, his duffle bag on the ground next to the rear tire. As the Impala approached, he stopped pacing and looked up, a frown etched deeply on his face.

"He looks pissed," Sam noted flatly.

"The truck broke down an hour ago. You'd be pissed too if you were standing here, waiting."

Dean shifted into park and turned off the engine. Not sparing a glance at his brother, he pushed open the door and got out. "Hey," he greeted as he grabbed the jumper cables from the back seat.

"What took you so long?"

"Sorry," Dean offered. "We got here as fast as we could."

John shook his head. "Let's move. I don't want the cops coming around."

Dean nodded, forcing his father's fowl mood to roll off his shoulders. Sam stood quietly, leaning against the Impala. There really wasn't anything for him to do and for that, Dean was grateful. The longer Sam and John could avoid each other, the better.

John took one end of the cables and headed towards the truck as Dean lifted the Impala's hood.

"Positive," John grunted.

Dean attached the positive cable to the Impala's battery. "Positive." He then attached the negative. "Negative."

"Ready."

Dean leaned in through the driver's side window and turned on the Impala. It rumbled to life. Now, they had to wait while the truck's battery took charge.

He glanced at Sam, who leaned against the Impala with his arms crossed and his face stony- but his eyes burned with smoldering anger. Dean looked away, stifling a sigh. It was going to be a long night.

Dean turned his attention to his father instead. "You find the ammo?" he asked, moving to stand beside John.

"Yeah."

Dean nodded. "So we're good?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

John said nothing, just stared straight ahead.

Dean sighed. "So it just up and died, huh? No warning or anything?"

"Dean, just shut up," John growled. "It's an old truck. We've been running our asses off for the past few months. I haven't exactly had the time to play mechanic."

"Tomorrow after breakfast, I could-"

"No, I'll do it." John ran a hand through his hair, slowly turning away. "You worry about your own car. We've covered a lot of miles recently. I want you to change the oil and check all the cables, understand? We can't afford another slip-up like this."

"Yes sir."

"Good boy." John nodded towards Sam. "What's with him?"

Dean glanced at Sam, who was still brooding next to the Impala. Across the dark alley, Sam met their gaze, then looked away quickly.

"That time of the month, I guess."

"Well he better snap out of it," John muttered. "I need him sharp. We're getting closer to catching the demon everyday."

"He's always sharp when it comes to hunting," Dean replied, not liking John's overly condescending tone. "He pulls his weight."

"He pulls his weight when it's of interest to him," John shot back.

Dean felt himself sliding towards an ugly confrontation. "I'm going to check the battery."

He wandered over to the truck and away from the choking tension. Sam still hadn't moved and John was now searching the streets, his face hard. Dean sighed and loosened his shoulders, then casually peered at the truck's engine.

"What the…" he muttered, frowning. The battery terminals where his father had attached the cable were heavily covered in blueish-white corrosion- in fact, the cable didn't have any contact with the battery terminal. It was impossible for the truck to take a charge like this. The corrosion should have been cleaned off first.

Dean looked up at his father, who was still watching the road. John knew better than this. He was a mechanic and the problem was an obvious one. There was no way he could've missed something like this. Why were they standing here, wasting time?

"Let's try starting her up," Dean suggested, forcing his voice to remain steady. He headed back to the Impala, keeping his eyes on the ground. A storm of uncertainty brewed inside him and he moved delicately.

John returned to his truck and they removed the cables, throwing them to the ground. Without a word, John got in the truck and started it. The engine rumbled to life instantly.

Dean stared. It was impossible. There was no way the truck should have started… unless it wasn't dead to begin with. But why would their father call them out here if there was nothing wrong? Why would he risk an encounter with the police? Why were they wasting time?

"Great." John shouted over the engines. "I'll meet you boys back to the motel."

"Uh, yeah… okay," Dean replied numbly. He dropped the Impala's hood and got in. Sam was already in the passenger seat, playing with his cell phone.

"Is it going to hold out?"

"Yeah," Dean said absently. He shifted into reverse and backed out on to the main street. There had to be a plausible explanation here somewhere. There had to be. Their father didn't overlook details, ever. Car batteries don't die, only to come to life by themselves an hour later. Dean chewed his lip. It just didn't make any sense. He was missing something.

"Listen, Dean. About what I said before…" Sam trailed off, waiting.

Dean shook his head, lost in thought. "Whatever. It's okay."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "It's okay? Who are you and what have you done with Dean?"

"What?"

Sam was staring at him. "Are you okay?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."

"You're fine."

"Yes, Sam. I'm fine. Just shut up, okay?"

Sam made an indignant sound. "Okay, mind filling me in here? What the hell happened back there?"

Dean sighed, glancing in the rear view mirror. "Nothing happened. I just think that maybe something _is_ a little… off, with dad."

"Really? So you're saying I'm right?"

"I'm saying I think there's something not right," Dean growled. "Whether it's you or him or _both_ of you, I'm not sure."

Sam was quiet for a moment, then, "What happened back there? Did he say something?"

"No."

"Well, what? Tell me."

"He didn't say anything, Sam! Just drop it." His bad mood was returning, fueled by Sam's insistence.

"You're the one that brought it up!" Sam shot back. "What'd he do?"

Dean shook his head, clenching his jaw. Sam did _not_ need more ammunition to use against their father. Dean could figure this one out on his own. "I'll tell you later. I'm serious. Just drop it, please."

The seldom-spoken politeness silenced Sam. He looked out the window, saying nothing more.

Dean's appreciated the silence, despite the hard feelings between them. There was something going on, something big enough to distract John not only from hunts, but from everyday life as well. Sam was right- their father was getting sloppy. Details slipped past him more and more frequently. He was getting moodier. And now, there were things like this, which made absolutely no sense.

Dean pushed the gas pedal harder.

What the hell was going on?


	3. Chapter 3

DECEMBER

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and flipped on the turn signal. He yawned quietly, the hot air from the Impala's heater making him drowsy. He reached out and turned it off, stealing a glance at Sam before following his father's truck into the motel parking lot.

Sam slept silently beside him, his head resting against the window and his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. Dean shook his head- Sam would wake up with the mother of all cricks. It was a good thing they were finally stopping for the night. Sleeping horizontally sounded like heaven right now.

He shifted into park and turned off the engine. "Hey," he grunted, backhanding Sam's elbow. "We're here."

Sam jerked awake, squinting in the darkness. "What?" He looked outside, then at his watch. "How long was I asleep?"

"Long enough, Sleeping Beauty." Dean opened the door. Their father was already grabbing his bag. "Come on. I want a shower before Dad uses all the hot water."

The cold air gnawed on his bare fingers, freezing them to the bone. Dean shivered as he grabbed his duffle bag. The anniversary of Mary's death had passed thirteen days ago and winter fast approached, a constant throughout their travel. Dean shut the door and yawned again, his breath rising up to the stars. Sniffing, he hoisted the bag over his shoulder and started after his father. Behind him, Sam followed.

The motel office smelled of smoke and booze, but it was warm. The man behind the desk remained transfixed on the small TV before him. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth and a tattered Bud Light cap shaded his eyes. "Can I help you?" he asked without looking up.

John stopped before the desk. "I need a room with two beds," he said, reaching for his wallet.

The man looked up and a smile began to grow. "John? John Winchester?"

John frowned. "How do you know my name?"

The man stood up, grinning. "It's me, Harry! Harry Cook. Come on, you know me. I've owned this place for 6 years- you're one of my most frequent customers!" Smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke, curling up towards the ceiling as the cigarette bobbed on his lips.

John shook the man's hand wearily. "Oh, right. Harry. How could I forget?"

Dean watched the exchange with curiosity. Harry had obviously caught his father off guard, which was a hard feat to accomplish. He glanced at Sam who looked just as amused.

Harry stood back. "Wow. Son of a bitch… it's been a long time, hasn't it? What, at least a year since you've been in here. How are you?"

"Tired," John replied. "About the room…"

"Oh, right," Harry said. "Two beds, you said?" He looked questioningly between John and the brothers. The cigarette glowed as he inhaled.

Dean recognized the look. _Oh hell no._

"Hi," he said, stepping forward. "My name's Dean. Dean Winchester." He glanced purposely at John then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "That's Sam, my brother."

Understanding dawned in Harry's eyes. "You're John's kids?"

"Yeah. Lemme guess- he never mentioned us."

Harry looked stunned. "John has kids?"

Dean snorted. "I'll take that as a 'no'."

"Look," John interrupted, "Do you have the room or not?"

Harry's smile fell. "Uh, yeah. Sure." He grabbed a set of keys from a numbered peg on the wall and placed it on the counter. "Here. 211, at the end of the building." He waited till John took the keys and added, "Just like you always ask for."

John pulled a credit card from his wallet and laid it on the counter where the keys were. "Thanks," he grunted, then headed towards the door, brushing past Sam on his way outside.

Dean turned back to Harry. "He's got a lot on his mind," he offered lamely. "Thanks for the room."

Harry shrugged, breathing out a cloud of smoke. "Hey, no problem. John's a good man. A little moody…"

Dean smiled. "All work and no play…"

"Boy, do I hear that," Harry laughed. "You boys need anything, just let me know."

They bid their farewells and headed out into the night. It was well after midnight and the coldness stung his face and hands. His feet crunched over gravel and broken glass as they walked to the end of the building, the parking lot illuminated only by the pale moonlight.

Sam was the first to speak. "Dad had no idea who that was." His quiet voice echoed in the silence around them.

_Here we go_. Dean could feel a headache coming on. "It's a motel manager, Sam. Dad's probably only seen him a few times before."

"Dad remembers everyone," Sam shot back. "Especially someone who knows him so well."

Dean suppressed a growl. "Sam, don't start. I just wanna get in the room, take a shower, and go to bed, okay? Let it go."

"He's getting worse," Sam argued. "I thought you were going to talk to him."

"And what am I supposed to say? 'Hey, Dad, I've noticed you're getting really forgetful in your old age- could you knock it off? You're upsetting Sam.' " Dean snorted. "I don't think so."

Sam shook his head. "I'm being serious, Dean."

"So am I!"

They stopped outside the motel room, keeping some distance from the door. The light was on inside. John was already inside and unpacking.

Sam lowered his voice. "What's it going to take, huh? Last week he couldn't remember where he packed the rock salt. Tonight he forgets an old friend. What happens when we're standing face to face with a rawhead and he forgot to bring his tazer?"

Dean clenched his jaw. "That won't happen."

Sam cocked his head. "I hope not- but you gotta admit, Dean… something's wrong with Dad."

Dean looked away, balling his hands into fists at his side. Sam was overreacting, jumping to conclusions like always. But the accusations settled heavily in Dean's gut. What if Sam was on to something? Dean just wanted to go to sleep and wake up with his father as the flawless hero and Sam as the obedient little brother who could be bribed with an ice cream cone.

"Dad's fine, he's just getting older. Everyone gets older, Sam- everyone's entitled to forget things once in a while. But you know what? We're still a family. So instead of criticizing Dad all the time, maybe you should cut the man some slack. Better yet- why don't you talk to him yourself?"

"Fine," Sam growled. "I will. Something needs to be done."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Dean glared at Sam a moment longer before reaching for the door. "Move. I'm getting a shower."

Sam stepped aside and Dean felt the heat of his anger as he brushed past. John looked up from his seat on the bed closest to the door. His weapons were spread out on the bed and a can of oil sat next to his knee. He remained silent, slowly rubbing the cloth over the gun's muzzle.

Dean kept his mouth shut and focused on digging a clean shirt and boxers from his duffle bag. The tension in the room was palpable and Dean wanted nothing to do with it. He grabbed his clothes and headed to the bathroom, ignoring the looks from both Sam and his father. If Sam really wanted to talk to John, then Dean was more than happy to give him the opportunity.

But when he emerged fifteen minutes later, Sam sat on the edge of one bed, staring at the laptop, and John was on the other, still cleaning his weapons. Dean stood in the doorway, steam billowing into the room from behind him, and searched their faces. They were each still in one piece- usually Sam's 'talks' ended in bloodshed or banishment. Dean stared at Sam, wondering what- if anything- had happened in his absence, when Sam spoke.

"Check this out," he announced, his gaze transfixed on the computer screen. "I found today's edition of the local paper online. Looks like a pack of dogs are killing cattle at the edge of town, just a few miles from here."

Dean moved to the other side of the bed and sat down, his back to Sam. "I know we're tight on funds, but we _can_ afford to pay for a hamburger-"

"All the dogs had glowing, red eyes."

Dean looked at John. "Well that's more like it," he said. "What do you think?"

John shook his head and continued cleaning his gun. "No."

Sam looked up. "No? Why not? We've killed tons of these things, they're simple."

Dean watched John's shoulders stiffen.

"I said no, Sam. Not tonight."

A feeling of uneasiness came over Dean. John Winchester never turned down a hunt.

"They're killing the livestock," Sam argued. "It won't be long before they try to attack a person. What if it's a kid?"

John stilled his hands and glared at Sam. "I said _no_. The owner of those cattle will be guarding them from now on. He'll shoot the dogs himself. It would be a waste of our time."

"A waste of our time?" Sam echoed incredulously.

Inwardly, Dean cringed. Sam was gearing up for a fight and John was digging in his proverbial heels. It would only be minutes before Dean would have to pull them apart.

Sam plowed on. "Since when is destroying evil 'a waste of time'?" He pushed off the bed and began pacing. "I know putting a few bullets in some dogs doesn't get us any closer to finding the demon that killed Mom and Jess- but we owe it to the people in this town to help them. We know what those things really are, what they're capable of." Sam stopped, and then went to his duffle bag and yanked open the zipper.

"What are you doing?" John growled.

"I'm going. You can stay here, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of them on my own."

"Sam-"

"I don't need you, Dad!" Sam glared at John as he shoved the gun in the waistband of his pants. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you lately, but it doesn't matter. If you won't help these people, I will."

Dean stood up. He agreed with his father- the dogs would probably be dead by morning anyway. But he didn't want Sam going out alone, half-cocked. "Look, it's almost morning anyway, Sam. Let's just get some shut eye and we'll take care of the dogs tomorrow, okay?"

"No. We'll be back on the road tomorrow- I'm going now."

Dean glanced at his father. "Sam…"

"Let him go, Dean. He's right- he's a big boy now. He can handle it by himself."

Dean didn't like this at all. Something didn't feel right- it was like a throwback to the pre-Stanford days, when his brother and father were constantly at each other's throats. They had gotten along so well recently that Dean had almost forgotten how bull-headed they both could be.

But a bull-headed Winchester could be a reckless Winchester, and not having your head in the game would get you killed.

"I'm going with him," Dean announced.

A silence fell over the motel room as both Sam and John stared at him.

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Does it look like I have tits to you?"

They looked at John. He shook his head. "You're wasting your time."

"Yeah, well, Sam always did have a thing for cows," Dean shrugged.

"Get out of here," John said. "No screwing around. You kill those damned things and get your asses right back here, understand? We've got a lot of driving to do tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

Dean turned towards the door and ushered Sam outside before John could change his mind. Their father was still pissed and probably would be for a couple days. Almost as famous as the Winchester stubbornness was the Winchester grudge. That meant Dean would be playing the referee between the two. Admittedly, it was not his favorite job.

Dean closed the door behind them and inhaled a deep breath of the frosty night air. Instantly, the tension was dampened. Maybe a simple hunt was exactly what they needed. A chance to get out, just the two of them, and work together to accomplish something. It would give their father a chance to cool off. Plus, shooting things always had sort of a therapeutic affect- a way to work out aggression.

He watched Sam throw himself in the passenger seat and slam the door, a scowl clearly visible even in the darkness.

Yes, maybe a simple hunt was exactly what they needed.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ow- damnit, Dean, slow down!"

"Sorry, sorry." Dean slowed his stride and readjusted Sam's arm over his shoulders. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam growled. "Just be careful."

Dean kicked the passenger door shut and started forward, taking special care not to move too fast. "All right, come on."

Sam grunted as they moved, limping heavily on his left foot. "Shit," he whimpered. "Damn thing got me good."

"Well quit trying to walk on it, genius," Dean replied. His breath came out as snow white puffs in the cold air. "Shit- I forgot the first aid kit."

Sam lifted his arm off of Dean's shoulders and hobbled forward, crashing into the motel wall, just outside their door. "Well go get it," he panted. "Just hurry up- it's freezing out here."

Dean pulled the key out of his pocket and tossed it at Sam. "Then go inside. Dad's probably awake- you know he hasn't been sleeping well." Dean laughed to himself. "I can't wait to hear him rip you a new one for getting bit by a black dog. Man, you're gonna get it." He pulled open the car door.

Sam rolled his eyes before turning his attention on the door. "That's just what I need tonight, a lecture about the finer points of dog hunting."

Dean grabbed the first aid kit. "Hey, you're the one that let it chomp on your leg."

"I didn't _let_ it- it attacked me. How was I supposed to know it wasn't really dead?"

Dean shut the door and head towards Sam. "Winchester Rule number 14: Make sure it's really dead before you get too close."

"I know what the rule is," Sam murmured, pushing open the door. "You don't need to-"

Before Dean knew what was happening, Sam was yanked forward into the darkened motel room and pulled out of sight.

"Sam!" he shouted, bursting over the threshold. "What-"

Beside him, John had Sam against the wall, one hand wrapped around Sam's neck and the other holding a knife to his gut. Sam's eyes were wide and his hands were clamped over John's, trying to pry the fingers from his neck.

"Dad! Dad- hey! It's us!"

For several heartbeats they hung in limbo, John's heavy breathing the only noise in the room before slowly, he started to relax his grip.

"Dad?" Dean questioned, stepping further into the room. Cold air blew against his back from the open door. "It's just us. Come on, let him go."

Sam gulped audibly, still frozen to his spot against the wall.

Dean studied his father and more importantly, the way he was still holding Sam by the neck. It was taking way too long for John to realize who they were. Dean's gut twisted and he took another step forward. "See? It's me."

John looked between them, his nostrils flaring in an effort to control his breathing. "Dean?"

Dean took another step closer, one hand up in a placating gesture. "Yeah. Let Sam go, okay? He's hurt."

John slowly looked back to Sam, at last lowering the knife and then his hand from Sam's neck. Sam slumped forward, gasping for breath. Dean eyed him critically.

"Sam?" John asked.

Sam looked up, rubbing his throat. "Yeah."

There was a moment of silence, then John's face contorted into anger. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Dean was confused. "Uh, Dad- this is our room, remember?"

"I know what _you're_ doing here," John snapped, glancing at Dean. "But _you_…" He advanced on Sam, jabbing a finger in Sam's chest. "I thought I told you to never come back."

What the hell? Dean looked at Sam, who looked just as confused as Dean felt.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, his back pressed against the wall as John loomed in. "We just left an hour ago to find the dogs, remember?"

Dean searched his father for any kind of injury. Did he fall and hit his head while they were gone? Was he sleep walking?

"Get out," John growled, pointing at the open door. "Get the hell out of my sight."

"Dad," Dean tried, reaching out for his father's elbow.

His hand was knocked away. "Stay out of this, Dean. If Sam wants to run off to college and abandon this family, then so be it. But he will not be welcomed here again."

"Wh- college?" Dean was incredulous. "Dad, that was almost six years ago! Don't you remember?"

Dean searched his father's face. John's eyes were focused, there were no cuts or bruises or lumps. He appeared to be normal… and very pissed. Then what the hell was happening?

"Sam- out. Take your stuff and get out, now."

Sam's gaze volleyed between his father and Dean, confusion and pain in his eyes. "But-"

John's hand balled into a fist as he pulled back. "I said _now_!"

"Dad!" Dean leapt forward, pulling John away from Sam. "What the hell is wrong with you? Sam left for college years ago." He pushed John towards the closest bed. "Here, sit down. Something's wrong with you."

"Dean, what's going on?"

John tensed and Dean moved to block his view of Sam. "Sam, please- go wait outside. We'll be out in a minute."

"No."

"Listen to you brother, young man! He's not the one abandoning this family!"

Sam made a sound like a whimper and Dean stared at their father in disbelief. It was like they were reliving the time Sam left for Stanford all over again.

"You see it now?" Sam asked, taking a step away from the wall. Anger laced his voice. "You see! I told you something wasn't right with him! You believe me now?"

Dean tensed. "Sam, don't. Just go wait outside. I'll be right there, okay?"

Instead, Sam just came closer, getting angrier with each step. "He needs help, Dean! Look at him! He needs a doctor, an exorcist- _something_!"

Before Dean could contemplate that, John was shouting again, leaning towards Sam.

"You shut your mouth, boy!" John shouted, raising a pointed finger even as Dean struggled to keep them separated. "You've got no room to talk! _You're_ the one abandoning your family- your _mother_- just to run off to some drunken frat parties! You're a disgrace!"

"Would you listen to yourself?" Sam shot back. "Most fathers would be happy when their child earned a full scholarship to an Ivy League school! But not you- instead, I'm being ostracized!"

"Sam, _please_!" Dean begged. They were both too angry, digging up old grudges, opening old wounds. Dean felt like he was trapped in a bad case of déjà vu. "Just go outside."

"Listen to your brother, Sam. He always did follow orders better than you."

"Oh! So now you wanna get into who's the favorite?" Sam was now hovering just on the other side of Dean, pressing against his shoulder. "You think just because he never questions you, that makes him the 'good soldier'? What about the ghost in Kentucky- you two were gonna barge into that house with your guns blazing like you always do… and you would have ended up killing someone that night because the newspapers failed to mention that a family had moved in! Then what would you have done, huh? You'd be sitting in jail right now, carrying out a life sentence. Rotting."

"And you'd make sure of that, wouldn't you? You'd make sure the long arm of the law hit me as hard as it could, then you'd collect a shit load of money for it."

Dean closed his eyes briefly. The jabs tore at him as they flew past and he breathed deeply, trying to push through the pain. He couldn't handle this right now. He had to figure out what was wrong with John. "Sam, stop. Dad… just stop talking, both of you. Please."

His pleas went unheard.

"At least I'd have a _real_ job. I wouldn't make a living hustling the local bar flies or scamming credit card companies. I could be proud of something."

"You ungrateful little shit," John hissed. "Get out of my house."

Dean tensed. "Dad-"

"Get out of the way, Dean." John pushed Dean to the side and advanced on Sam. "Leave now and never come back, do you understand me?"

Sam backed up, stumbling over the threshold. He glanced at Dean, his eyes bright with confusion and disbelief, his anger dissipating. "This isn't your house, Dad," he said, standing outside, all his weight on his uninjured leg. His breath puffed in the space between them and he wrapped his arms around himself. "You're confused. Dean's right- you need a doctor."

John's left hand grasped the door. "I've never felt better. Have a nice life, _Sammy_." He started to slam the door when Dean lurched forward and caught it.

"No!" The loudness of his voice surprised him, surprised them all. Dean breathed through his nose, fighting for composure. It had been scripted up till now- all the same arguments that plagued his nightmares ever since Sam announced he was leaving for school. This was the part where he always watched Sam leave, walk out the door and never look back. Up till now.

"No. If he goes, I go."

It was the ultimatum he'd only ever said in his dreams.

John stared at him and their gazes locked. Dean recognized the raw anger in his father's eyes, the nearly feral gleam that had been present that fateful afternoon all those years ago. Dean's stomach was twisted, flip-flopping in his gut. "Come on, Dad," he backpedaled. "Let us help you. You're not yourself… something's wrong with you."

John shook his head fiercely. "The only thing wrong with me is my insubordinate sons. You leave with him, and I never want to see either of you again."

A nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. What if he was possessed! Dean eyed the line of salt at Sam's feet, scattered from when Sam stumbled over it. His eyes shifted to the duffle bag, where the holy water was stored. Then he focused on John. "Christo."

John blinked. "What did you just say?"

Sam's eyes widened with understanding. "Christo," he repeated, louder.

"Get out," John growled, yanking Dean's elbow and shoving him outside. "You think this is some joke? You think you can mock me, mock what we do?" He stomped over to the beds, grabbed their bags, and then returned, throwing the bags at Dean and Sam. "I had such high hopes for you two. I can't believe you're just throwing it all away like this- for him. You disappoint me."

Time screeched to a stop. Dean shivered from an overwhelming mixture of coldness, anger and fear. The hair on the back of his neck stood upright as stiffly as the hackles of the black dogs he had killed fifteen minutes ago.

Then Sam spoke up. "Dad- wait. Let me show you something first, okay? Just hear me out for one minute and if you still want us to leave, we will, deal?"

"No. We're done here."

"Dad," Dean tried, stepping into the doorway. He had no idea what Sam was planning, but he had faith in it. Sam always pulled through. "Please- just listen to him."

John eyed them coldly for several seconds before sighing and moving aside. "Make it quick. You got one minute, understand?"

"Yes sir."

Sam limped back into the room, Dean right on his heels. This was their last chance- it had better work. Sam was a smooth talker but John was furious. Anger was clouding his judgment. If this didn't work, they'd have to get John help by force and that had trouble written all over it. Nobody forced John Winchester to do anything, not even his sons.

Sam dropped his duffle bag on the bed and grabbed the newspaper off the coffee table. "Okay, so I left for college in August of 2001, right?"

"What does this have to do with-"

"Dad, just listen to me for a minute!" Sam snapped, moving towards John. "Look, see what the date is? This is today's paper, read the date."

Dean grinned. _Good boy, Sam._

John quirked an eyebrow as he reached for the newspaper. "What the hell are you trying to pull…"

The rest of his words came out on an empty breath. He brought the paper closer to his face, tilting it towards the light as he squinted. "What the hell…" he murmured, confusion quickly replacing anger.

Dean locked gazes with Sam. His little brother was concerned, afraid. The gravity of the situation had fallen upon them heavily and gripped their shoulders with its piercing talons. John Winchester was a strong man- to see him unwell was deeply unsettling. Dean swallowed and broke their gaze, fear coiling in his gut.

Suddenly John shook his head and threw the paper back at Sam. "No, I don't believe this. This is some sort of prank paper you picked up somewhere- well I got news for you. This little stunt isn't going to change my mind. I'm not falling for it."

"Why would I lie about this, Dad?" Sam exclaimed, raising his hands. "This is not a prank! Look, I'm going to turn on the news. You'll see, watch."

Sam began to move but crumbled on his injured leg, catching himself on the edge of the mattress. Dean grabbed him, intent on supporting him, but Sam straightened out on his own and continued towards the TV, stabbing the large round button in the corner. It sizzled to life, the picture snowy for a moment before clearing. In the bottom right corner, the time, date, and temperature were typed in small white print.

Sam said nothing, just turned and waited for John's reaction, exhaustion and pain showing in the corners of his eyes.

The room was silent as John stalked forward, glaring at the TV. As with the newspaper, his face softened as confusion took over. "What's going on?" he whispered, changing the channel only to be presented with the same information.

Dean's heart twisted and he stepped forward. "Dad, it's okay. We'll figure out what's going on, okay? We'll-"

John held up a hand and Dean fell silent. "Just… give me a minute."

Dean looked at Sam, who looked as pained as Dean felt. Their father was lost and confused, like he had just woken up from a deep sleep and was disoriented. Dean had never seen his father so helpless. There had never been a problem he couldn't talk- or bullshit- his way through. John was supposed to be their leader, their rock, their commander. Now the line of order had been turned upside down.

Dean felt sick.

John sank down onto the bed, burying his head in his hands. He took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly as his fingers raked through his hair. "What's happening to me?" he murmured, then raised his head to look at them. "Sam, I..."

Sam ducked his head. "It's okay, I should have known…"

"I don't know what's going on," John admitted, and the words sliced through Dean with talons of ice. "I think I need help."

Dean moved forward, reaching out slowly and tentatively setting his hand on John's tense shoulder. He had to stay strong- at least on the outside. "Come on," he said. "Let's get you to a doctor, okay?"

John nodded quickly, taking another deep breath.

Without a word, Sam and Dean gathered the things they would need and followed John out into the freezing darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes**: My thank you to Carikube, who had the generosity to post the last chapter for me while I was internet-less. And secondly, thank you to everyone who's reviewed- your kindness means a lot to me.

* * *

Dean's knee bounced. His calf burned. He sighed again, his breath warming his bare arms and the tops of his thighs as he hunched over with his hands balled into fists at his temples.

Sam paced along the wall, nine steps to the water fountain and nine steps back to his abandoned chair. They were forgotten, just two nameless bodies amidst a sea of worried families in the county emergency room. People swirled around them, everyone seeing to his or her own agenda without giving either of them a second thought. They were completely alone.

Dean kept a watchful eye on the clock above Sam's chair. They had arrived an hour ago- What was taking so long? What was going on? Dean sighed and slumped in the chair, still bouncing his leg as he tried to make eye contact with anyone in a white coat.

"Family of John Winchester?"

The voice had come from behind him and Dean jerked to attention. "Right here," Dean replied. Sam was instantly at his side. "What's going on? How is he?"

The doctor ran a hand through his silver hair. "He's fine, son. We'll talk somewhere more private. Follow me."

"That bad, huh?" Dean murmured as he stood up. His spine cracked and popped with the movement. Ice began to frost his veins as he followed. The hallway was long and bright and their shoes made noise against the polished tile. The sounds of the emergency room faded as they rounded a corner. The silence made him jumpy; the last time he had to talk to a doctor in private, Sam was in a coma.

The doctor opened a door and stepped inside, then waited for Dean and Sam to follow. It looked like a break room of sorts, with a couple leather couches and chairs, a small kitchenette, a few potted plants, and some large gaudy paintings framed in gold. Dean took a seat at one end of the closest couch and Sam sat on the other end. The tension was suffocating.

The doctor closed the door softly and took a seat in a chair across from them. He laid his stethoscope on the glass table between them with a clink. "I'm Dr. Stevens," he said, reaching out to shake their hands. "You're John's sons?"

Dean shook the doctor's warm hand. "I'm Dean, this is Sam." His voice was soft, quiet. His throat was tight. His leg started bouncing again. "What's wrong with him?"

Dr. Stevens looked from Dean to Sam. "I've called in a neurologist to offer a second opinion, but before I discuss diagnoses, I'd like to ask you boys a few questions first."

Dean didn't want questions, he wanted answers. Why couldn't he ever get a straight answer?

Sam nodded. "Sure."

"You brought your father in here because he had a 'memory lapse'- what other kinds of changes have you noticed?"

"Mood swings," Sam replied. "He's moody a lot. Angry at everything, everyone."

Dean kept his gaze on the vomit-colored carpet. "He doesn't sleep much at night. Wakes up and paces or watches TV." His chest hurt and he didn't want to think about how much was _wrong_ anymore. "Look- just tell us what's wrong with him, okay?"

"I know you want answers, son, but I need to ask these questions in order to properly diagnose your father. Is there anything else you've noticed?"

Sam spoke up again, quietly. "He gets disoriented sometimes. It takes him longer to use a map."

Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him and purposely avoided meeting his gaze. He couldn't deal with Sam's pity on top of everything else.

"What about details? Any trouble with names or dates?" Dr. Stevens prompted.

Dean nodded.

"Yeah," Sam said. "He's pretty bad at names, like he get's tongue-tied."

The silence was pregnant with anticipation as Dr. Stevens pulled a pad of paper and pen from his pocket, scribbling notes. "How often do these things happen?" he asked without looking up.

Sam seemed to be handling the conversation so Dean let himself fade into the background, his leg still bouncing furiously.

"Uh… a couple times a week, maybe?"

"Have they gotten worse?" Dr. Stevens asked.

"Yeah."

"How long has he been experiencing these symptoms?"

_Symptoms_. These things had all been symptoms? Guilt blossomed in Dean's chest. Symptoms of _what_?

Sam sighed. "I guess it started about a year ago." He paused, running a hand over the back of his neck. "He, uh… mixed up our luggage."

Dr. Stevens finished making notes and put away his pen and paper, leaning back. "Well, based on our findings from all the tests we've run today and the history you've just provided, I'd like to go ahead and make a diagnosis."

Dean looked up.

"Your father is displaying signs of moderate cognitive decline, or stage four of Alzheimer's disease."

Dean's leg fell still as the word echoed inside his head. "Say what?"

"Alzheimer's disease is a progressive brain disorder that gradually destroys a person's memory and ability to learn, reason, make judgments, communicate and carry out daily activities. As Alzheimer's progresses, individuals may also experience changes in personality and behavior, such as anxiety, suspiciousness or agitation, as well as delusions or hallucinations."

Sam was pacing again. "Our grandfather died of Alzheimer's."

Dean stared at him. "How do you know that?" More importantly, why didn't _he_ know that?

"I asked," Sam shrugged. "There was a school project about family history…"

Dr. Stevens nodded. "That certainly strengthens my diagnosis," he said. "This disease tends to run in the family."

Dean ran a hand over his head. "Yeah, but there's a cure now, right? There's some sort of pill you can give him and he'll be fine." The room was getting hotter, the air thicker.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Stevens shook his head. "Although there is currently no cure for Alzheimer's, new treatments are on the horizon as a result of accelerating insight into the biology of the disease. Research has also shown that effective care and support can improve quality of life for individuals and their caregivers over the course of the disease from diagnosis to the end of life."

"End of life?" Dean echoed. "What's that mean? You just said his memory will get worse, you didn't say anything about-"

"His brain is deteriorating, Dean!" Sam exploded. "He's gonna die slowly, a piece at a time, lying in some nursing home like a complete vegetable." His own words seemed to hit him in the gut and Sam sank onto the couch, his face pale. "He's gonna die."

Dean stared at the doctor. Sam had to be wrong.

"Son, you have to stay optimistic," Dr. Stevens said firmly. "Your father still has many years ahead of him. There are treatments that may help relieve some of the symptoms. Taking full advantage of these treatments, care, and support can make all of your lives better. You have time to make plans."

Dean was still reeling. Dad was dying. It was all his fault- he should have seen the symptoms earlier, should have taken them seriously. Should have been a better son.

His stomach lurched and the bitter taste of bile filled his mouth.

"I suggest you find a support group and use their help in making the appropriate decisions," Dr. Stevens said. "This is going to be hard for all of you. It will help being able to talk to other people in the same situation."

"Can I see him now?" Dean asked, his voice cracking. He scrubbed his eyes, trying to ease the burning.

"Of course," Dr. Stevens replied. "He's resting comfortably right now. I'll take you to him."

The old doctor pushed himself to his feet and Dean did the same. The room spun slightly and he took a deep breath, steadying himself before following Dr. Stevens. Sam followed silently, looking lost in his own thoughts. Dean said nothing.

"Your father is physically sound, so I've chosen to go ahead and release him," Dr. Stevens said as he led the brothers.

The hallway was desolate. Harsh lighting glared off the sterile tiles and their footsteps echoed like rolls of thunder during a midnight storm. Dean was numb. Images swirled in his head with frightening clarity: Dad in a nursing home, Dad being spoon-fed, Dad in a wheelchair, Dad in a casket. He and Sam standing before a granite headstone. Flowers. Graveyards. Mom.

A bitter taste filled his mouth as his stomach lurched. He couldn't fathom a life without Dad. Even when they were separated, he still had the knowledge that John Winchester was out there, hunting, bringing justice to Mary's death. Even in absence, Dad was still their leader, still provided direction and hope. They were still a family.

"Dean."

He blinked and focused on Sam. They were stopped outside a curtained cubical. Sam stared at him expectantly.

"What are we waiting for?"

Dr. Stevens put a hand on Sam's shoulder and pushed aside the curtain. "I've got some visitors for you, John. Found these boys loitering in the waiting room. Claimed they were with you."

Inside the cubical, John smiled from his seat on the thin mattress. He was wearing his normal clothes and looked the same as he had when they arrived, except for the small bandage on the inside of his left elbow and the lines of fatigue around his eyes. He was not on his deathbed, not shriveled and feeble and helpless. He was still _Dad_.

"Hey boys," John said. "Thought I told you not to take candy from strangers."

Dr. Stevens smiled and let go of Sam. He approached the bed and took note of a chart. "As pleasant as your company has been, there's no reason for you to stay any longer. But before you go, I'd like to talk to all of you for a moment."

"Sure thing, doc."

"It's important that you know what to expect," he started. "Certain tasks will get harder for you and I want to see you regularly for check-ups, but in the meantime, be prepared for things like balancing your checkbook or cooking meals to take longer. Do these things during the times of day when you feel best, and if needed, give yourself a break. Let your boys help you."

Dean stared at his father. The Winchester equivalent of balancing a checkbook was hustling pool and instead of cooking meals, the Winchesters placed orders. Their father would soon need help doing these simple things? What about cleaning the guns? What about interviewing locals?

What about the important stuff?

"Your communication will continue to be affected by this disease. Take your time and ask people to repeat things you don't understand. Write them down if you have to."

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. Sam was leaning against the sink, his arms crossed as he stared at the floor. John was doing his best to keep his game face on. Dean wondered how much more the man could take.

"There will be a point when it will no longer be safe for you to drive," Dr. Stevens said. "Luckily, you have two young men here who will be able to take over for you."

John glanced at Sam, the fluorescent lights overhead glittering in his dark eyes. "What about my memories?"

"You can make a schedule of your daily activities and keep it posted somewhere. Keep a book with important names and phone numbers. Mark off days on the calendar to help keep track of time." Dr. Stevens glanced at Dean and Sam. "Label photographs so you can keep names with faces. Label drawers and closets with their contents." He took a deep breath. "I know this sounds degrading and infantile, John," Dr. Stevens said. "But I want you to keep your sons in mind. Let them help you. This disease affects all of you- you're not in this alone. Right, boys?"

"Yes sir," Dean replied. John flashed him a smile.

After a few seconds, Sam said, "Right. We'll help."

"Now," Dr. Stevens said, "I'm going to turn you loose. I want you to set up a follow-up appointment before you leave, okay? From there, we'll determine how often you need to come in."

"Thanks, doc." John glanced at Dean then Sam. "Can we have a minute before I go?"

"Sure. Just a minute though, or else you'll be sharing your bed with whoever comes in next," Dr. Stevens grinned.

The doctor spared them all a final, encouraging smile before disappearing through the curtain with a soft swish. Dean shifted in ensuing silence. John looked at them.

"Boys…" John started.

Sam pushed away from the sink and began to pace.

John looked at Dean. "You boys okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean shrugged. And he was. You know, if he ignored the incredible pressure in his chest and the numbness of his legs.

John looked at Sam but kept his mouth shut.

He looked at Dean again. "Right. Well, let's get out of here, huh? We'll grab some breakfast before we get back on the road."

"Wait," Sam said, his shoes squeaking against the floor as he stopped suddenly. "That's it? We're not going to talk about this?"

John stood up and Dean stepped to the side as his father brushed past. "Not here, Sam. This isn't the place."

"Then where?" Sam challenged, moving forward in an attempt to block their father's exit. "This is serious, Dad. You can't just ignore it and hope it goes away."

"We will talk about it," John growled. "Later."

Sam's gaze jumped to Dean.

Dean kept quiet, stepping out of the way as John moved about the small cubical, gathering his things. Sam was probably right but so was Dad- this was not the place. No place would be good enough for John Winchester. Dean knew what would happen; Sam would keep pressing and Dad would keep avoiding until one of them burst and the whole conversation would be colored in anger and spite. Dean would play mediator and in the end, they would regret all the time they had lost.

That was how it always happened. Why would this time be any different?

But Sam yielded easy, staring at John with those damn puppy eyes.

John turned to face his youngest son. "We'll talk later. We've got plenty of time, remember? Right now I'm starving and I know you two have got to be hungry as well."

Sam remained silent. He'd stopped believing John's promises long ago, sometime between the second broken bone and the third missed dance. Dean would give anything to change that now.

John always interpreted silence as acquiescence, so with a curt nod of his head, he said, "I'll meet you boys in the parking garage in five."

They were left alone in the curtained cubical, staring at each other as staff and patients moved about in the hall. There was nothing to say, nothing that would take the pain away. Dean took a step back, avoiding Sam's gaze. Although the thought of food turned his stomach, the sense of normalcy might provide some comfort.

And courage.

"Come on, Sam," Dean called over his shoulder. "Let's get out of here."

"Dean."

His gut twisted at the sound of fear and pain in Sam's voice. He kept one hand fisted in the curtain and turned towards his younger brother. "Yeah?"

Sam stood still, looking thinner than he had a few hours ago, more drawn. Younger. "I…" he swallowed and looked away, his eyes shadowed by his overgrown bangs. "Are we… I mean… I just wanted…"

Dean's heart would have cracked with empathy, had it not already been shattered. "I know," he said. He had a pretty good idea how Sam felt. But this was not the time or place for one of their brotherly heart-to-hearts. Dad was right- there would be plenty of time for that later. "I know," he repeated.

Dean took a deep breath and waved Sam forward. "Come on, Sammy. Let's catch up with Dad."

Sam rubbed at his eyes then nodded jerkily.

Without a word, they disappeared through the curtain with a soft swish.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note**: Thank you to everyone who pointed out that I neglected to 'treat' Sam's leg. While I was writing, I imagined his worry for his father eclipsing his own pain- a detail that has been noted and addressed. Again, thanks for all your reviews. I know this is not a happy story, but it is very special to me.

* * *

JANUARY

"I'll be right back."

"Okay, I'll be right here."

Dean watched his father disappear into the gas station restroom as he set a dollar bill on the counter. "Thanks," he murmured, grabbing the two cups of coffee.

He squeezed the warm cardboard between his hands, savoring the pleasant tingle in his cold fingers. Wisps of steam rose from the small holes in the lids and he inhaled the scent of pure ground coffee beans that rose from the cup on the right. No milk or sugar or cream- that was Sam's forte. Dean liked his brew straight up and strong.

He turned away from the gas station attendant and moved to the glass doors. As he sipped the coffee, he looked outside. The sky was grey and freezing rain drizzled constantly, just slow enough to be annoying. The Impala was parked out front, steam billowing from the exhaust pipe as Sam sat in the passenger seat, bent over a well-worn map.

They had spent part of the evening last night in the local laundry mat, partly because they actually need some clean clothes, but mostly because counting change was one of the mental-awareness exercises prescribed by Dr. Stevens. John had balked at first, completely unwilling to engage in such demeaning activities. But between Dean's insistence and Sam's creativity, their father was beginning to participate.

They had been digging for pennies in the bottoms of their pockets when they overheard a young couple's emotional conversation about the ghost in their apartment complex. After a few off-handed questions, the Winchesters had found their new gig. It sounded simple enough; just a comedian of a spirit who enjoyed harmless pranks and general mischief. The guy had good taste too: stealing bras and pulling back the curtains at rather 'revealing' moments… Dean would almost be sorry to send the guy on.

"Hey, you ready?"

Dean blinked and turned towards his father, a grin still on his face. "I'm ready. Let's go do some ghost-busting."

Dean rolled his shoulders, hiking the leather jacket up higher on around his neck, and started for the doors. John remained where he was, staring at the Impala with a relaxed expression.

"Dad?" Dean asked, returning to his father's side. "You okay?"

"Look at him," John said, a smile playing in his lips. "Our boy's growing up, Dean."

Dean glanced at Sam, whose head was still bent low over the map in his lap. What had brought this on? "Uh, yeah, he is. You ready to go now?"

"Go?" John echoed incredulously. "We just got here."

Dean looked around the brightly lit gas station. "Uh, yeah…"

"He looks good," John continued. "I knew he'd be able to take care of himself. He's a smart boy."

Dean had no idea what brought about this rare moment of tenderness, but he allowed himself to surrender to it. Their father's praise was hard-won and Dean didn't want to interrupt it, for Sammy's sake. "He's a little too smart sometimes," he muttered.

Sam looked up at that moment and John jumped backwards, behind a six-foot tall stack of beer cans. Dean's eyebrow rose and he looked outside. Sam gave him the 'what-the-hell-is-taking-so-long' gesture: raised shoulders, bulging eyes, impatiently thin lips. Dean raised a hand, realized he was still holding both cups of coffee, and held up a forefinger. Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes, then ducked his head and continued working on the map.

"He's got a girlfriend, you know," John whispered.

"What?"

"Her name is Jessica. She's almost as beautiful as your mother was."

Dean stared at his father as John leaned forward, watching Sam from around the corner of the boxes. The overcast light from outside masked the color of his eyes and beneath that, they held a mixture of both pride and loss. It hit him then: John had slipped back in time, back to the first year after Sam left for Stanford. He was reliving an afternoon of years ago, when they had dropped in to check on Sam, staying only long enough to ease their worry.

"Yeah," he replied absently, his hand tightening around the cup. "Sammy did good."

Dean wanted to correct him, to grab John by the shoulders and force him back to the present. But the look in John's eyes stopped him, told him to indulge his father just this one time, for his own sake. For Sammy's sake.

"Think he's still salting the doors and windows? Of course he is, he'd never forget that. He better not get caught with any weapons, they'll take away his scholarship before he can blink. You did give him some extra credit cards, right? He might need… 'provisions'. Wait, what am I saying. He's safe, right? There's tons of other kids around-"

"Dad-"

"Still, he can't turn a blind eye to what's really out there. He'll never escape this life, being a hunter, no matter how successful he becomes. I want him to be happy, you know that, right?"

Dean nodded.

"I wish he could become a lawyer, marry his girl, have a couple ankle-biters and have everything he wants. I wish I could give that to him. But this thing is bigger than me, bigger than all of us. We can't walk away from it, even if we wanted to." John blinked and glanced at Dean. "Especially if we want to. What we do is important, you know that. I just wish Sam could understand."

Dean swallowed and found a sharp lump lodged in his throat. "Why don't you tell him?"

John crossed his arms loosely and stared outside. "You know your brother; he's just not cut from the same cloth as you and me. He's as headstrong as your mother was, and just as complicated. You brother and I always end up yelling at each other, you know that. I just can't understand him sometimes."

"You could try."

"I have tried, Dean. We just can't communicate."

A solitary drop of water slithered jerkily down the opposite side of the glass, cutting a path through the multitude of half-frozen water droplets. Sam looked up once more and John jumped back. Sam glared at Dean and rolled his eyes once more before setting the map aside and pushing open the car door.

"Uh, Dad," Dean said, setting the lukewarm coffee on the window sill. "You gotta come back to the present now, okay? We're not at Stanford anymore. We're in a gas station just outside of Des Moines. Sam's hunting with us again, remember?"

John looked at him blankly. "What?"

The overhead bell jingled as Sam yanked open the door behind John. "What's taking so long?" he snapped, frozen rain glistening on his dark hair. "You have to grind the coffee beans yourself?"

"Sam?" John turned, his eyes wide with confusion. "Why aren't you in school?"

Sam froze, raising one eyebrow. "School?"

Dean stepped forward. "That's what I was trying to tell you, Dad. Sam's out of school now. He's with us."

"Is it winter break or something?"

Sam's expression softened. "Yeah, Dad. I got out yesterday, remember?"

The creases in John's forehead deepened then relaxed. "Oh, right. Of course I remember." He paused a moment, taking stock of his surroundings, and then squared his shoulders. "Well come on then, let's get this show on the road."

Sam let himself be pushed aside as John shouldered past. The bell rang and a gust of cold air rushed around them as they stood alone, looking at one another in the relative silence.

"He's having another spell."

Dean breathed in deeply, letting the frigid air tighten his lungs. "Yeah," he sighed, grabbing the coffee cups. Outside, John stomped through the slush and yanked open the Impala's driver's door, the car bouncing slightly as he sat down heavily.

"What was it this time?" Sam asked, taking his now-cold latte from Dean's outstretched hand.

"We were checking up on you at Stanford," Dean replied. He hoped it would end with that; the pain in his father's voice had shaken him and he didn't want to dwell on what it all meant.

Sam's face immediately fell and his shoulder's slumped a little. "Oh. Is he okay?"

"Yeah, of course," Dean shot back. He headed for the door and Sam moved back, out of the way.

"Are you?"

"Am I okay?" Dean paused, one hand on the cool metal handle.

"Yeah."

"My coffee has turned to sludge and we've probably wasted a quarter of a tank, but yeah, I'm fine." Dean carefully kept his eyes on the Impala. There was a wet spot where the exhaust fumes had melted the slush behind it and it sparkled as the rain pelted it. "Come on, Dad's waiting."


	7. Chapter 7

MARCH

Sam rapped on the doorframe before leaning through the doorway. "Dad? You ready to go?"

"Do I look ready to you?"

Sam bit his tongue and joined his father in front of the hotel mirror. "Your appointment is in 45 minutes and it takes 25 minutes to get there. Where are the clothes I set out for you?"

"Those aren't my clothes."

"We just bought them the other day, remember?" Sam lied. The soft flannel shirt and worn jeans had been John's for years. He studied his father's reflection, his eyes drawn to the sprinkling of silver hair glittering under the harsh florescent lights. His face was darkened with lines of age and fatigue, and his chin rough with stubble. "Couldn't sleep last night?" Sam knew the answer; he was awoken at 2 am by the instrumental notes of the original Star Trek theme song.

"I slept good enough," John grumbled. "Out of my way."

Sam leapt back as John brushed past, moving towards the unmade bed. "Dean will be back with breakfast soon, you better get dressed. We'll have to eat and run."

John grabbed the flannel shirt and began pulling it on over his wrinkled white t-shirt. "I feel fine. I'm not going to the doctor. We've got work to do- I've got a lead on the demon that we need to check out."

Sam remained where he was, near the front door, and prayed for Dean's speedy return. They hadn't had a lead on the demon for well over a year. He cleared his throat and said, "We'll check out the lead, I promise. But you gotta get your check-up first, remember? Mac said so." Mentioning his father's old friend usually did the trick.

Lies came naturally to him now, and Sam hated the taste they left in his mouth. But their father was a stubborn man and when he didn't want to do something, it usually took both brothers and at least ten minutes of their best lies to change his mind. Today Dr. Stevens wanted to check John's overall health and the rate of the Alzheimer's progression, and that information was more valuable to Sam than his pride.

"Well why didn't you say so, Sam?" John growled, hurriedly putting on his jeans. "You know how he gets when we're late."

The doorknob rattled and Sam resisted the urge to grab it and yank it open. After a few seconds and some muted cursing, the door swung in and bounced off the wall. Dean entered, the key card in one hand, a drink tray in the other, and a bag clenched between his teeth.

"Thanksh hor your help," he muttered around the bag, kicking the door shut behind him.

John grabbed one of the covered cups. "Alright boys, we gotta eat on the run. Grab your gear, let's get out of here."

Dean dropped the bag on the bed and looked at his watch. "What? Wait a minute, what's the rush? We got time."

"Did I tell you to grab your gear or give me lip?" John snapped, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

Immediately, Dean's shoulder's squared as he straightened. "Sorry."

John took a sip of the coffee and grabbed his own bag. "Let's go. Dean- you're up front. We gotta get you ready for the driver's test Monday."

Silently, Sam watched him leave the room, and then he turned his attention to Dean.

He raised his eyebrow, a smile playing at one corner of his mouth. "Driver's test?"

"Shut up," Dean grumbled. "If I'm sixteen, how old does that make you?"

Sam's face fell. He moved forwards and snatched the cup whose lid had been adorned with a smiley face wearing long, curly hair. He took a drink, wincing as the latte scalded his tongue, and could smell the ink of the permanent marker on the plastic lid. He watched as Dean gathered his belongings and swallowed the burning liquid. "He's getting worse," he said. He was setting foot on rocky ground now and he braced himself. "Dr. Stevens said to call if-"

"I know," Dean snapped. "We have an appointment- what else do you want, Sam? He'll snap out of it soon."

"But Dean, we can't do this for-"

"I know, Sam!" Dean whirled, facing Sam as he dropped his duffle bag heavily upon the bed. "Just let me handle it, okay? Everything's under control."

Sam set the cup on the nightstand and grabbed his own duffle bag, standing opposite from Dean as he threw it on the bed. "And what, I don't get a say in this? He's my father too."

"Really? And here I thought you were just his nurse."

Sam straightened, leaning into the challenge. "What the hell's that suppose to mean?" They were separated by inches but the distance between them was full of jagged rocks and land mines. Sam stared at Dean, fueled with adrenaline and growing reckless.

"It means maybe you should stop treating him like he's going to break and start being his son," Dean growled.

Sam's blood ran hot. "But he _is_ going to break, Dean!" he shot back. "Maybe you should stop trying to be his favorite and start helping me with him."

"For God's sake, Sam! This is not about you! This is about Dad!" Dean's arm jutted out, pointing at the dirty window. Outside, the Impala rumbling in the morning sunlight. John was behind the wheel, bent to the side as if he were changing channels on the radio, oblivious to the argument churning in the hotel room. "Do you realize how hard this is for him? How much he _hates_ letting you take care of him? You're treating him like a baby."

"Oh, and you could do it better? You can pick out his clothes and help him order food from a menu _without_ making him feel helpless? Because if you can, I'd love to see it." The next words tumbled from his lips before he could stop. "Of course, that means you'd have to get your head out of your ass and realize that Dad needs help in the first place."

Dean dropped his dirty T-shirt and grabbed two fistfuls of Sam's before Sam could even blink. His head bounced off the wall next to the light fixture and a dull pain radiated through the back of his skull, stunning him. Dean held fast, leaning his weight into his fists, securing Sam to the wall.

"Just shut the hell up, okay?" Dean growled, his eyes hard and his shoulders tense. "Don't talk about him like that. He's still our father. Just because he's got some stupid _disease_ doesn't mean you can stop respecting him."

"I do respect him, Dean. I respect him enough to know when he needs help."

Hurt flashed through Dean's eyes so quickly, Sam wasn't sure he hadn't just imagined it. They fell still, the sounds of breathing the only sound in the room. Sam just waited, silently urging Dean to come to an acceptance.

"What the hell is going on in here?" John interrupted, standing just inside the open door.

Dean unclenched his fists and backed away, turning towards their father as he blew out a breath, running a hand over his head. "Dad, I- we…"

"Save it," John snapped. "Since you two can't wait to get your hands on each other, you can spar together when we get back. Now move your asses."

Sam finished smoothing out his shirt. "But Dad-"

"That is, you can spar _after_ Sam gets done running five miles." John eyed them both. "Since you've got so much air to waste."

Sam clenched his tongue between his molars and drew in a deep breath through his nose. The threats were meaningless, but the urge to correct John was strong. His diplomatic tendencies had gotten him into trouble countless times before and now he understood why- remaining silent was harder than spending an afternoon doing drills. It just wasn't in his nature.

"That's what I thought," John grunted at last. "Now move. I'm leaving in two minutes, with or without you two."

It wasn't until the door slammed shut that Sam blew out the breath he'd been holding.

Dean looked at him as he grabbed his duffel bag. "Dude, don't look at me like that. You're the one who never learned when to shut up."

Sam relaxed, the tension draining but not disappearing, and he grabbed his own duffle bag. "I am not running."

Dean smiled. "What's the matter, Sammy? Afraid of a little fresh air?"

Sam followed Dean to the door. "Have you looked outside? It's going to rain any minute."

"Oh, good. You need a shower."

Sam shoved Dean, satisfied when Dean's hands flew up to catch his balance. He'd play along for now, maintaining Dean's thin veil of normalcy. A dark cloud was looming over them and Sam knew it wouldn't be long before they were caught in the storm, but for now, for Dean's sake- for _all_ their sakes, Sam would play along. Other things were more important now anyway, like taking care of their father.

John honked the horn and Dean nudged Sam's elbow. "Come on Sammy. And bring your expensive, half-caf double vanilla latte shit with you."


	8. Chapter 8

MAY

Dean knew it was Sam just by the sound of his socks scuffing the carpet. He feigned sleep, tracking his brother's movements as Sam crept closer. Dean lay face down, his left cheek pressing awkwardly against the over-stuffed hotel pillow, one arm under his pillow, one knee bent and sticking out from under the blankets. He lay in wait, his breathing shallow as Sam stopped next to the bed.

"Dean?"

Just as Dean was well aware of Sam's presence, Sam had been able to recognize Dean's 'playing possum' routine for years.

"What?" Dean asked, unmoving.

"Dad's gone."

Dean jerked upright, knocking into Sam in his haste to stand up. "What? Where is he? How long has he been gone?"

"I don't know! He was gone when I woke up."

Dean snatched his jeans off the back of the chair and hobbled from foot to foot as he shoved his feet in the legs. "Did you ask around?"

"No, I-"

"Christ, Sam- he could be anywhere! Come on, we gotta find him." Dean pulled on a t-shirt and headed for the door.

"All the weapons are still here," Sam said as he hurried to catch up. "But-"

Dean reached for his keys but only knocked his knuckles against the wooden table. Startled, he looked harder, tossing aside last night's fast food bags. "Where the hell are my keys?"

Sam pivoted so that he was in Dean's line of vision. "The Impala's gone."

"What?" Dean's blood turned to ice and the tiny shards ripped at his veins. "Sam, Dad doesn't even know what day it is, how are we gonna-"

He forced himself to stop and take a breath, looking at Sam. Sam's eyebrows pinched together and his forehead wrinkled in an expression of worry and anxiousness. Expectation.

"Okay, think," Dean started, forcing his shoulders to relax. "If we were Dad, where would we go?"

Sam's eyes widened. "Out to hunt something."

Dean searched the room. "We need a newspaper. Maybe he left a clue."

"He could have got a phone call," Sam said, moving to the nightstand. He picked up the pad of scratch paper and tilted it towards the light.

"Let's hope not." Dean ran a hand through his hair and tried to ignore the way his fingers trembled against his scalp. John no longer knew their phone numbers, what city or state he was in, or even his own age. The complexity of the task at hand hit Dean full-force and it stole his breath. How do you find someone who wasn't all there to begin with?

Sam threw down the stationary. "There's nothing here."

"All right," Dean replied a lot more confidently than he felt. "We'll split up. I'll head to the diner, you check out the gas station. We'll keep in contact with the cell phones." His hand was on the doorknob when it ripped from his hand.

John stood in the doorway, a look of surprise on his face and his hands full of take-out bags. "You're up," he said cautiously.

A surge of relief crashed into Dean so hard his knees almost buckled. "Dad," he said breathlessly, "Where'd you go?"

He looked past Dean to Sam. "It's Sammy's birthday," he stated. "I got pancakes." He rustled the bags, emphasizing.

John sidled past Dean and set the bags on the foot of one of the beds. "Hope you're hungry, I got eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns- the works. It is a special occasion, after all. Sammy's a teenager now."

Dean watched as his father grabbed an open-jawed Sam and pulled him into a quick hug, ending with a firm pat on the back.

"Happy birthday, son."

Dean's chest tightened as John began unpacking the breakfast. It had been years since a birthday was celebrated, and even longer since the once-traditional pancake breakfast. Sam was frozen to his spot, his jaw clenched. They stared at each other, each barely breathing. Emotions flashed through Dean; first numbness, then pride, then happiness and even a little jealousy. January 24th had been spent in Dr. Steven's office, waiting for test results and an updated prognosis.

"Sam? You look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong with you two? Get over here and eat!"

Dean moved forward. "Yes sir," he squeaked.

Sam blinked and looked away, scrubbing his hand over his face. "I'm-" his voice broke and he started for the door. "I gotta…I left something in the car."

"Sam-"

He paused just long enough to look over his shoulder. "Sorry."

Dean watched him go, his anger flaring. What the hell just happened? He looked at his father.

John wore an expression of confusion and hurt. He shuttered it quickly and turned his attention back to the food with a shrug. "He'll be back," he said calmly. "Probably went snooping for his present."

"Dad," Dean started, feeling the need to fill the silence. He stood next to his father, watching as the food was laid out on the bedspread. It looked appetizing- but he doubted he could swallow anything with his throat being so tight. "This was really nice of you."

John flashed him a smile, his dark stubble standing out against his pale skin. "Hey, it's my boy's birthday. It's not much, but it's something."

When all the food was laid out, John threw the bags in the too-small trash can and moved to his duffle bag. "Wanna help me clean these?" he asked, hefting the weapons on the other bed.

Wordlessly, Dean moved forward and sat on the foot of the bed as his father unpacked the weapons.

"You know, son, I've actually been needing to talk to you for a while now."

Dean looked up. "You have?"

John unzipped the cleaning kit. "You're growing up, Dean. You've gotten so tall- it's like you grew a foot overnight."

Dean's stomach twisted.

"It's time we talked, man to man."

Dean raised an eyebrow. A sneaking suspicion began to unfold within him…

The can of Prolix hissed as John sprayed the cleaner down the gun's barrel and in the cylinder chambers. Some of the chemical dribbled down John's trembling fingers, unnoticed. "You're at the age where your hormones control everything you do. I've seen you oogling women and it's perfectly natural for you to be curious-"

"Whoa- whoa, hold on a minute," Dean exclaimed, his spine stiffening. "Dad, I don't need the 'birds and the bees' talk-"

"I know it's embarrassing," John continued, setting the gun aside and picking up another. "I had a father too. But you have to be prepared. If you're going to tom-cat around, you gotta be safe about it. I don't need a grandson right now, understand?"

Heat spread up Dean's neck and into his cheeks. He snatched the whet stone and unsheathed a hunting knife. "Yes sir."

"I want you to come to me if you ever need anything. Don't be embarrassed. I may be your old man, but I was young once too, before your mother."

At the mention of Mary, Dean slowed his movements and looked across the bed. John held the bore in one hand and the gun in the other, trying to push the cleaning patch down the barrel. His hands shook, though, and jab after jab, he missed.

"Damnit," he cursed after stabbing himself in the hand.

Dean set the knife and stone on the bed next to his knee and reached out. "Let me do it," he urged, meeting his father's gaze.

"I haven't had my coffee yet."

The excuse was shallow and pathetic and the gun felt extremely heavy as it dropped into Dean's palm. He closed his hand around the cold metal and John stood up, the bed bouncing slightly. He grabbed one of the to-go cups and moved towards the window, his back towards Dean.

"You boys are growing up so fast," he said softly, his voice distant. "It seems like only yesterday I was carrying Sammy around on my hip."

Dean set the gun down and watched his father's reflection in the glass.

John stood with his arms crossed over his stomach, wisps of steam rising from the cup just under his chin. Sunlight poured in where the curtains were parted and John seemed to relax in its warmth. He took a deep breath, then said, "I know I don't say it enough, but I'm proud of you boys." He turned around, facing Dean. "You're a good kid, Dean. Ever since your mom… You really handle a lot of responsibility, probably more than any kid should have to. I want you to know…" John shifted a little. "I really appreciate it. Sam appreciates it. You matter to me, Dean. You matter a lot."

Tears stung Dean's eyes and he blinked, masking his emotions with a curt nod. "Sure. No problem."

Their voices echoed in the silence until John cleared his throat and approached the food. "Where the hell is that brother of yours? The food's getting cold."

Dean stood up, his mind still struggling to digest what had just happened between them. "I'll go find him," he volunteered, eager to escape the small room, and his own thoughts.

He paused at the doorway, watching as his father began to pick at the bacon. His heart swelled, pushing painfully against his ribs, and Dean swallowed the lump in his throat.

Then he turned and left.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Notes: My deepest gratitude to all of you who've made it this far. I appreciate your time and comments.

* * *

SEPTEMBER

Sam stepped out of the shower, one hand rubbing the bleached-white towel over his too-long hair. He paused, stepping into his boxers. Then he moved to the sink, his feet slapping over the cold and unforgiving tile, hair and debris sticking to the soles of his feet. They hadn't left the hotel room yesterday and housekeeping had been more than happy to give them privacy. Again.

He threw the towel on the floor where it landed on a pile of dirty clothes. He grabbed his toothbrush and started brushing, his eyes falling on the tattered picture of their happy, complete family. John carried it everywhere now, protecting it with a fierceness that had faded from every other part of him. As Sam brushed his teeth, he stared at the photo in the bottom corner of the mirror. Wishing. Wanting.

When his mouth was full of foam he spit it in the sink and reached for the hand towel. Something clattered into the sink, skittering right into the mound of minty slime, and Sam stared at it.

A gun.

"What the hell," Sam growled, snatching the gun. He turned and grabbed the doorknob, yanking it towards him.

"Dean," he yelled, marching into the room. "Dean!"

"What?" Dean whined from the bed.

Sam stomped to the mound of blankets and dropped the gun on the pillow next to Dean's head. "Explain this."

Dean's fingers curled over the edge of the bedspread before peeling it down. He blinked groggily. "Sam? I'm sleeping here- what the hell's wrong with you?"

"I found that in the bathroom," Sam said, pacing the length of Dean's bed. "I thought you were watching him last night!"

Dean was awake now, sitting up with the gun in his lap. "Chill out. They make him feel better, you know that. I thought that's why we agreed to hide the ammo."

"So you gave him a gun? Dean, what-"

Dean sighed, setting the gun on the nightstand. "I didn't _give_ him a gun. He found it in _your_ stuff and I let him have it. It's not like he can hurt himself cleaning an unloaded gun. You gotta throw him a bone once in a while, Sam."

Sam stared at his brother. "I throw him bones. I throw him all kinds of bones. But allowing Dad to obsessively disassemble and reassemble weapons is crazy! They're not pacifiers, Dean. Just because it makes him feel better, it doesn't mean he should have it."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil," Dean mumbled, getting to his feet and brushing past Sam. "I'm getting a shower."

Sam shook his head in anger, resentment. Then he noticed: something was missing. "Wait," he said, turning around. "Where's dad?"

"Breakfast," Dean said over his shoulder. Then he shut the bathroom door behind him.

"Wait- what?" Sam's heart leapt into his throat. He threw open the bathroom door just as Dean pulled his t-shirt off over his head.

"Dude- privacy?" Dean snapped, turning on the shower.

Sam didn't budge. "Dean, where's Dad?"

"I just told you, he went to get breakfast. Leave."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the wet tangles. "You let him leave? Dean- he doesn't even know what state he's in. Did you even make sure he was dressed?"

Dean straightened as steam began to billow out from behind the curtain. "No. I let him go to McDonalds buck-naked. Jesus, Sam."

Sam balled his hands into fists and turned for the door. "I'm going to go find him."

"No, wait." Dean grabbed his elbow. "Let him go. He's having a good day. Let him do this one thing, on his own, by himself, without you hovering right behind him."

Sam whirled. "He can barely take a piss by himself anymore- what makes you think he can find his way to McDonalds?"

"It's right next door!" Dean exclaimed, tossing his hand in exasperation. "Give him a chance! Let him have some dignity for Christ's sake."

Sam's lungs were suddenly empty and he drew in a deep breath of wet, hot air. "Dignity? Well excuse me for wanting to see my father alive and safe instead of dead and 'dignified'."

Dean's eyes narrowed and Sam shut his mouth. He was dancing on the proverbial line here, playing with fire. He held his ground as Dean stalked across the small room, stopping inches from Sam's chin.

"I seriously hope you're not implying that I don't care about my father," Dean growled. "Because _I'm_ not the one who abandoned him for some crazy pipe dream when he needed us most."

The blow hit him in the gut. "Pipe dream?" Sam echoed. "Gee, Dean, thanks for caring so much about my future. And here I thought you were proud of me for having the balls to live my own life."

"You live your own life all right. You live in your own little world, like you've got blinders on so you can't really see what's happening. This is our _dad_ we're talking about here, Sam. Stop treating him like he's just some stray animal you found."

"You're one to talk, aren't you? Why don't you take your own 'blinders' off and realize that Dad is _sick_? He _needs_ our help. He needs us to pick out his clothes and order his food and tell him when to go to bed-" Sam stopped, his breath catching as a realization blindsided him. "I don't treat him like Dad because he doesn't act like our dad," he whispered, absently staring at a tiny spider creeping along the baseboard.

They looked at each other, thin wisps of steam curling through the air around them, heavy and choking. Sam felt off balance, naked. Everything he thought he knew now had a new meaning. Dean was right- he hadn't been treating Dad like _Dad_.

Suddenly Dean looked away, resting his hand on the doorknob behind Sam. "Get out. I'm trying to get a shower here."

Sam looked up at the unexpected response. He stepped backwards, still trying to decide what he wanted to say when Dean met his gaze.

"Look, if he's not back by the time I'm done, I'll help you look for him, okay? Just give him a chance, Sammy. Please."

Taken aback by the sudden change in disposition, Sam could only nod. "Yeah, sure. Okay."

The door shut in his face and Sam shivered from the sudden drop in temperature. There had been pain in Dean's eyes that, for once, had nothing to do with physical hurt. Sam stood there, staring through the bathroom door, trying to figure out what just happened. What it all meant.

Fifteen minutes later, he still was.

Dean glanced at him as he moved to the bed and grabbed his jeans. "You better not have eaten my McGriddle."

"He's not back," Sam replied, well aware that he was stating the obvious.

Dean pulled on a t-shirt and grabbed a gun. "Well let's go. I'm hungry."

"Dean… what you said earlier- I…"

"Forget it. Let's just go get Dad, okay? He probably just forgot what he was going to order."

Sam nodded weakly. "Yeah. You're probably right." His gut twisted sharply.

Dean shut the door behind them, grinning his most cocky grin. "I'm always right. That's why I'm the older brother."

They were standing in front of the closed elevator doors when Dean's cell phone rang. He pulled it out and frowned at the caller ID before answering. "Hello?"

Sam shifted his weight as the elevator ascended the floors, rising in response to the illuminated 'down' arrow.

"Yeah- that's my Dad. What-"

Sam tensed, searching Dean's face.

"Where? How long?"

The elevator doors opened and Dean surged forward, snagging Sam's sleeve.

"Okay. I'll be right there."

"Who was that?" Sam demanded as the doors slid shut.

"Security guard at the bus station four blocks away," Dean replied, turning haunted eyes on Sam. "They caught Dad trying to use a fake ID to buy a one-way ticket to Lawrence."

o0O0o

"Dad?"

Sam followed Dean as they circled John, coming to a stop in front of the slumped man. He looked up at them, tears thick and shiny in his eyes. "Who are you?"

The words hurt worse than any blade or bullet ever had. Sam blinked, glancing at the concerned security guard standing next to them.

"We're your sons," Dean replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

John straightened a little, the lines on his forehead fading. "Good. I thought I was all alone and nobody cared about me." He reached out, grabbing Dean's elbow and pulling him closer. "So what's your name?"

Dean looked at Sam, his eyes bright with raw emotion. Then he turned back to John, squeezing his hand once. "I'm Dean. This is Sammy. You were going to get us breakfast, remember?"

"Where's my wife? Where's Mary?"

"She's, uh…" Dean floundered, then Sam stepped forward.

"She's back at the hotel, waiting. We're going to take you back there, okay?" The words were bitter and it felt wrong using his father's memories against him. But they were in over their heads now. They had suddenly veered off the edge of the map, and Sam found himself in unfamiliar and dangerous territory. They needed help.

John eyed them warily, as a starving dog eyes a well-meaning stranger. "I just want to go home. I want to see my wife and boys."

Sam held out his hand. It was pale, his fingers cold. "We can take you there. You just have to trust us."

What an oxymoron.

Dean's eyes were burning twin holes in the back of his head, but it didn't matter. John reached out, his thin, trembling fingers wrapping around Sam's own. Empty eyes locked onto Sam, staring straight into his soul. "Let's go," John said, rising to his feet.

"Thanks for calling us," Sam said to the heavy-set security guard. Dean helped John navigate to the door and Sam held out his hand.

"Just keep a closer eye on him next time," the black man said, shaking Sam's hand. "We thought he was a drunk at first. Luckily he had a cell phone. If you hadn't been right around the corner, he would have wound up in the holding tank at the nearest police station."

An image of his father, alone and confused and sitting in a dark jail cell flashed through his mind. "I appreciate you not doing that," Sam said. "He's harmless. It's the Alzheimer's…"

The black man's eyes softened. "No need to go any further. My granddaddy died of Alzheimer's when I was little. I know how hard it can be."

Sam watched Dean help John through the door, out into the hall. "Yeah," he murmured.

"You take good care of him, understand? Don't let me catch him wandering this bus station again."

The words were firm but caring and Sam nodded. "I don't plan on it." He started to leave when the guard's voice stopped him.

"Hey- one more thing," he said gruffly.

Sam turned tentatively. "Yes?"

The black man tossed a small card to Sam. He caught it- one of John's many fake IDs.

Shit.

"I've taken better fake IDs from a thirteen year old," he said with a smile. "Tell the old guy it was a nice try, though."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks."

"Get out of here, kid. Go take care of your Daddy."

o0O0o

"Good job. Now let's go to bed, okay?"

John set his toothbrush on the sink next to the two others and turned towards Sam. "And tomorrow I'll get to see Mary?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam lied, the words sitting heavily in his gut. "Come on."

He steered John towards the bed furthest from the door and pulled back the covers. "Lie down."

John, dressed in the white t-shirt and boxers Sam had picked out, sat on the bed. He reached out and picked up the wrinkled, yellowed photograph of their family. "I love her," he said softly, his thumb softly brushing over Mary's face. "She's perfect. My boys are perfect. I really got lucky with her, you know? I got more than I deserve."

Sam's throat threatened to close up and he coughed softly, turning away. "She's beautiful." He wished he could say more.

John returned the picture to the nightstand slowly, his hand trembling as he propped it up against the lamp. Sam held up the covers as he lay down, and then adjusted them so they lay neatly over his father's prone, too-thin form. When John was comfortable, Sam turned off the light.

"Goodnight." The word sounded pathetic and insufficient in the dark, so Sam lingered, unsure.

John grunted in response and the room fell silent. With nothing else to do, Sam headed outside, locking the door behind him.

Once outside, the cool night air rasped around him, chilling him to the bone. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his way along the parking lot, down to where the Impala sat with its back wheels kissing the low concrete barricade. Sam stepped onto the smooth asphalt and walked the length of the car, stopping next to the front wheel. Dean sat with his legs outstretched on the hood, leaning back against the windshield, six-pack and a half at his side. He stared out over the parking lot, watching the blur of headlights on the highway.

"Am I interrupting?" Sam asked quietly, knowing damn well that he was.

Dean remained still. "You get him to bed?"

"Yeah."

Dean took a swallow from the beer can and waited a few more moments before, "Something you want to say?"

Now that he had permission, Sam crossed in front of the Impala's nose and gently- so as not to scratch the paint- took a seat on the hood just like Dean. He eyed the beer but didn't reach for it until Dean used his knee to nudge the cans. Sam pulled a can from the plastic binding and held it in his hands, fingers slowly drawing through the cold condensation.

"Dean…"

"I won't let it happen again, okay? I'll put him on a fucking leash and walk him everywhere, just like you want. Problem solved."

"No, it's not okay. The problem isn't solved." Sam traced the rim of the can with his finger, watching the wet tin shine under the streetlamp above them. "We need help."

"We'll go back to Dr. Stevens tomorrow," Dean replied, then took another long drink from his own beer.

The pit in his stomach grew and Sam spun the can between his thighs. "That's not what I mean."

A semi truck rumbled by and Dean drained his beer. He grabbed another without looking at Sam and popped it open, immediately sipping the foam. He rested the can on one knee and belched, his shoulders relaxing a little. "No? Then what do you mean, Sam?"

The words were a dare- a dangerous one at that. But there was no turning back now. Sam studied Dean's profile as he said, "I think we should put Dad in a nursing home."

The shadows of Dean's face seemed to darken. "No."

"This is more than we can handle, Dean! What if he wanders off again? What if he hurts himself- or someone else- with the weapons? What if he gets sick? Are we just supposed to put our lives on hold until…" He shut his mouth, turning his attention back to the can.

"Until what?" Dean growled, staring at Sam. "Say it."

Sam stared straight ahead, watching the headlights. "You do know he's going to die, right?" he spoke gently, to no avail.

"Everyone dies, Sam. I learned that pretty early on."

Sam longed for the warmth and haze from the beer but doubted his stomach would tolerate it now. "You know what I mean. This- the Alzheimer's- it will kill him. It already is." He swallowed. "We're losing him, Dean."

"Shut up," Dean growled, pushing himself off the car. "Just shut the hell up, Sam. I know what's happening- I'm not blind. But you're not going to put him in a home. He's not a dog. You can't get rid of him just because you don't want to take care of him anymore."

Sam abandoned his unopened beer, sliding off the car as well. "So are you volunteering to help me take care of him then? Because I really could use the help, man."

"I am helping!" Dean shot back. "I help. I do stuff. I fold the laundry and go get food…"

"I need more than that. He needs help with everything: showering, shaving, brushing his teeth… everything, Dean. And it's not just that. He can't sleep through the night, he's getting delusional, then there's the whole thing with the compulsive gun cleaning-"

Dean stalked towards him, all hard angles and shadows in the night. "So we'll deal with it," he growled.

"I've been doing research," Sam said, holding his ground. "It's going to get worse. A lot worse. His brain is literally deteriorating. He's going to lose control of all major-"

Sam found himself slammed back against the Impala, his spine cracking painfully against the roof of the car. He bit back a yelp, instead focusing on the anger and denial in Dean's eyes as he leaned in close.

"Shut up," he warned, both fists wrapped tightly in Sam's jacket. The smell of beer carried on his breath. "We're not sending him away. He's still our father, damnit. He still runs this family. He needs _us_, Sam- not some underpaid, inexperienced part-time nurse who doesn't give a crap. I won't put him there."

Sam let himself be pressed harder against the car. He knew the truth and offered it softly. "Maybe you're the one who needs him."

Dean looked like he'd been smacked. His grip eased slightly. "Don't. This isn't about me."

Sam took back the space between them. "It's about all of us, Dean. But we have to think about what's best for Dad. We won't be able to take care of him when he gets sick. He'll need a full time nurse, meds, the works. We'll find him a good place. We'll take a tour and ask questions-"

"And how are you going to pay for it? Do you know how much money places like that cost? More than we could ever make as Ghostbusters."

"We don't get paid for 'busting ghosts'."

"My point exactly."

Sam stepped away from the car and grabbed his beer, finally cracking it open. "I don't know how we'll pay for it. Like everything else, I suppose. Or I could get a job."

Dean snorted and grabbed another beer for himself.

"The fact remains," Sam started, waiting till Dean was mid-swallow, "Dad will need more care than we know how to give. There's no way around it. We're gonna have to find him a place, for his own sake. He deserves it."

Dean kept drinking, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed gulp after gulp. When he was done, the crushed the can in his fist and threw it into the bushes. He sighed, turning away from Sam. "Yeah, I know."

Sam took a drink, watching Dean fidget. "We can talk to Dr. Stevens about it when we see him tomorrow. I'm sure he'll know of some good places."

Dean remained still, his back to Sam and his head down, unmoving.

"Dean?"

Finally, Dean raised his hands and scrubbed at his eyes. "I just hate this, you know?" he mumbled. "I feel like we're letting him down."

"He doesn't even know who we are anymore."

The words were meant to help but once spoken, sounded cruel. Sam winced.

Dean turned, looking Sam straight in the eyes. Sam could see the tears he was struggling to hold back and it made his heart twist.

"But he's still in there. I see him once in a while, in his eyes, in the way he talks. He's fighting this thing."

Sam's gaze turned inwards as he remembered how lucid John had been at lunch. He had smiled at the waitress, paid the bill, even ordered for himself and cut up his own food. He had been almost… normal.

But episodes of clarity were getting shorter and further apart. He was fighting a losing battle. It wouldn't be long before John was in a permanent state of confusion and disorientation and physical sickness. They couldn't continue to care for him out of cheap motels. It wouldn't be fair. To any of them.

Sam traced his fingers over the cool, slick chrome on the Impala. "It's time," he said softly, almost hoping Dean wouldn't hear. "We need to let him go."

Dean shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders so the collar of his leather jacket covered his neck. "We'll ask the doctor, okay? That's all I'm promising."

It was a start. Sam shivered and looked at Dean. "Come on, let's go in. It's getting cold out here."

Dean glanced up at the hotel and nodded once. "Yeah, all right. We gotta be up early tomorrow anyway if we want to make it on time for our appointment."

"Thanks for the beer," Sam said as he followed Dean towards the sidewalk.

Dean snorted. "Don't think that was free. I expect payment in full by morning, understand?"

Sam rolled his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Notes**: Squee! For what it's worth, I've been trying to get this to you guys for the past 24 hours. I apologize to everyone I've not responded to. Please know that I treasure every word of your reviews. And now, before the site has any more problems, I'd like to present the end of this story. As you reach for the tissues, please know that I've got the next story completed and one more on the drawing board.

Again, thanks to Amy and Caroline for betaing, and thanks to everyone who had the courage to read this sad tale.

Emily

* * *

"Sit down, boys."

The knot in Dean's gut tightened. "I'd rather stand, actually."

Dr. Stevens looked at him sympathetically, then shrugged as he sank into his large leather office chair. "Do either of you need anything before we get started? Water?"

"No," Sam said softly, firmly. Dean's anxiety was increasing his own. "Please, just… can you tell us what's going on with our dad?"

Dr. Stevens leaned back and steepled his hands. "What's going on, Sam, is that your father has entered the sixth stage of Alzheimer's disease."

"How many-"

"Seven. This is the start of the end stage."

The words hit like a fist and Sam's gut clenched. It was no surprise- after all, he had done his research- but it hurt hearing the words out loud. Made them real. Behind him, Dean fell back against the window.

The doctor looked solemnly at Sam then Dean. "Boys, there's no easy way to tell you this. Based on the symptoms you've described; the loss of awareness, his needing assistance using the restroom and getting dressed, the disruption of the sleep cycle, and his compulsive behaviors…" he paused. "Your father would be better off in a full-time nursing facility."

Dean pushed away from the window and started for the door. "Come on, Sam. We're leaving."

Sam watched him, making no move to follow.

"I do not make recommendations such as this very lightly," Dr. Stevens said. "I would not bring this up if I did not think it was what is best for your father."

"You can take your recommendation and shove it," Dean snapped, hovering in the doorway. "We can take care of him just fine."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, and it had nothing to do with the stiff leather chair. "Dean, I think we should-"

"Shut up," Dean snapped, and Sam found himself on the business end of Dean's index finger. "I'm not sticking Dad in a fucking nursing home for the rest of his life. I don't want him being taken care of by strangers. That's what we're for. We're his sons, we can take care of him."

Sam glanced at the doctor. "But we _can't_ take care of him," he argued. "Look at what happened yesterday. He could-"

"What happened yesterday?" Dr. Steven cut in.

"Nothing," Dean said. "He got a little lost and we found him, that's all."

"Got a little lost? He was trying to buy a bus ticket to Kansas!"

"But we found him."

"Because the security guard has a soft spot for confused old men."

Dr. Stevens coughed. "Let's focus here, please," he started, flatly, "You two need to put aside your differences and think about what truly is best for your father. Are you prepared to be his full-time caregiver?"

Sam shut his mouth; Dean sat down heavily in the opposite chair. "I know what's best-"

"Let me speak," the doctor said, holding up a hand. "This is a very emotional decision and I understand what you two are going through, I really do. But let me ask you this: are you prepared be your father's nursemaid 24 hours a day? Can the two of you handle feeding him, clothing him, bathing him, helping him walk and eventually move at all? Not to mention all the mood swings brought on by confusion and frustration and fear. His language will deteriorate, he'll be more susceptible to other diseases."

Dr. Stevens slid a thin pamphlet across the desk towards Sam. "This is a wonderful hospice nursing home located just down the street. I'm their on-call physician and I make rounds there every morning. The staff is wonderful and well-educated. I encourage you to go there and take a look around." He looked pointedly at Dean. "Your father will not be stuck in a room and forgotten, I promise you. They have very active programs designed to slow the Alzheimer's progression." He smiled at them. "Placing your father in a nursing home is not admitting defeat, gentlemen. You have done a wonderful job so far. But perhaps now it is time to pass the torch along?"

Dean snorted softly, dropping his right ankle onto the opposite knee. "Before it burns out, you mean?"

Sam winced.

Dr. Stevens bowed his head in acknowledgement. "We all die, Dean. But by placing your father in a nursing home, you can be sure he will be well-cared for until the end."

Dean looked out the window, his jaw clenched.

"And anyway," Dr. Stevens continued, leaning back. "You're young. I'm sure you boys would like to get back to your normal lives. You know, school, girls…"

This time, Sam looked out the window.

"Our dad is not a burden," Dean argued.

"He's not?"

"No." The answer was fast, seemingly without thought.

There was a pause, then, "Sam? You're being awful quiet. Do you have any questions?"

The doctor and Dean were both staring at him. Sam cleared his throat. "Do we have to decide right now? Can we talk about it? How long do we, uh… have? You know, until…"

"Most patients live for another year or two after entering the end stage," Dr. Stevens replied. "Go home, do some research, talk to people. Talk to each other. Put aside your emotions. I think you'll make the right choice."

Sam nodded. He already knew the right choice. But convincing Dean… that was one mountain Sam wasn't sure he could move.

"I want to see him now," Dean said. "He's been here long enough."

"Of course." Dr. Stevens rolled back from his desk and stood up, watching as Sam folded the hospice brochure and stuck it in his jacket pocket. "Follow me."

o0O0o

OCTOBER

In a small diner on the edge of Satsuma, they realized he was incontinent.

The mashed potatoes were creamy and salty, the meat cooked just right and seasoned the whole way through. The water was clean and the waitress was friendly, and they were enjoying themselves for once. Later, Sam would blame himself for not paying attention, not asking if his father needed to relieve himself. He should have known better.

Two bites into his pecan pie, John dropped his fork and looked down at his lap.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, both brothers immediately on guard, straining to see.

Bloodshot eyes lifted to meet them. "I…" John started, his eyes wide and haunted.

"Dad?" Sam prompted, sliding out of the booth and circling the table.

He looked down, saw the large wet splotch on the crotch of John's jeans, and swallowed.

"I didn't mean to," John said. "I-"

"It's okay," Sam murmured, reaching out.

Dean looked between the two of them. "What? Is he okay?"

"Yeah," Sam replied quietly, pulling John to his feet. "We need to go now. You got the bill?"

Dean's eyes locked onto the dark stain. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

"We'll be in the car," Sam said, navigating John between the empty tables.

o0O0o

NOVEMBER

After filling the tank and loading up on junk food at a Devol gas station, he lost the ability to walk on his own.

Sam pushed open the glass door and juggled the drinks and candy in his hands as John stepped over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. Dean was at the far pump, his back to them, leaning against the trunk of the Impala as he watched the numbers on the pump rise. Sam let the door shut and followed his father.

John stepped off the curb and his ankle gave out, sending him crashing to the oil-slicked blacktop.

"Dad!" Sam yelped, dropping their lunch and falling to the ground next to his father. "Dean!"

John groaned, a long-suffering sound of embarrassment and frustration. "Damnit," he cursed, pushing himself upright. "I'm fine. Get off me."

Dean was beside him then, and they each had a hand on John's shoulder. "Are you sure?" Sam asked, helping John to his feet. "Does your ankle hurt?"

John glared at the Impala, not meeting either brother's concerned gaze. "I said I'm fine," he growled, hobbling from foot to foot. "Just help me to the damn car."

Sam lifted his father's arm, settled it around his own shoulders, and never removed it.

o0O0o

DECEMBER

As they watched a snowy rerun of 'A Christmas Story' on the small hotel TV, they learned the full implications of their choice.

The cell phone rang while Dean was helping John brush his teeth. Sam stared at the illuminated display, not recognizing the incoming phone number, not liking the way his stomach twisted in knots.

"Sam, can you get that?" Dean yelled.

Sam leaned over, grabbed the phone and flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Is this Dean Winchester?" The voice was panicked, breathless.

"This is Sam, his brother."

"Oh, Sam. Okay. I got your number from my sister's best friend. She said you guys deal with… you know… ghosts?"

"Uh, yeah. Sort of. I mean… What's your name?"

"I'm Nicole. I think my house it haunted. Can you guys come get rid of it?"

Sam looked to the bathroom, watched the shadows move over the floor. "Where are you, Nicole?"

"Washington."

Sam's stomach tightened. Washington was at least a two-day drive, _if_ they only stopped to care for their father. They had fallen into a routine, traveling short distances at a time, mostly in an effort to keep their father occupied. Running long and hard at the drop of a hat wasn't feasible anymore- not if they were to continue caring for John. Plus, it was December. The weather had to be taken into consideration. "Look, Nicole… I'm going to give you the number of someone else, okay? He's a friend, he'll be able to help you."

"Oh," she replied, surprise evident in her voice. "Sure, okay. I guess."

As Sam relayed Caleb's contact information, a coldness crept over him, chilling his spine. This was the first time he'd ever backed down from a hunt. Despite his longing for a normal life, being a hunter defined Sam as a person. He'd grown up with it, been submersed in the nomadic, courageous lifestyle for as long as he could remember. A Winchester never backed down from a hunt. It was unheard of.

He'd turned away Nicole and her simple haunting- but it signified so much more. For years, they had the demon by the proverbial tail, keeping a firm and tenacious grip as it writhed and bucked. And now Sam had just let it escape, dropped it to the ground and watched it scamper away into the night, dragging Jess and Mom behind it.

At that moment, he realized just how much was being sacrificed, and it stole the breath from his lungs.

Sam closed the phone in the palm of his hand just as Dean helped John out of the bathroom. "Who was that?" Dean asked.

"Nobody," Sam replied, staring blankly at the images on the TV screen. "Wrong number."

Dean settled John onto the bed and glanced at Sam. "You looked spooked."

Sam blinked, shaking himself from his stupor. "I'm fine," he replied, not even bothering with a fake smile. He set the phone back on the nightstand. "Fine."

o0O0o

JANUARY

"I am not making him wear that."

"Dean-"

Dean snatched the package of adult diapers and threw them against the wall. "No. No fucking way."

"What else are we supposed to do? Get kicked out of every single hotel in the country?"

"The bedpan is bad enough. You are not putting Dad in… _those_ too."

"You can't make him sleep in his own urine every night. He'll get infections. We won't be able to afford food if we spend all the money at the laundry mat."

Dean crossed his arms.

"Dean."

Dean's lip twitched before he raised one hand, slowly scrubbing his face. When he met Sam's gaze, his pain was physical. "I hate this," he breathed, tears shimmering in his eyes. "This is such bullshit!"

Before Sam could move, Dean had spun and thrown his weight into a left hook against the wall.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, lunging forward and catching his brother's elbow as he drew back for another blow. "Dean, come on. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He didn't know what he was apologizing for. It didn't matter. When Dean stood relatively still, tense and panting, Sam continued, "We don't have a choice. I don't want to see him wear those any more than you do. But what other option do we have? Setting the alarm to go off every two hours? We would never last."

Dean breathed in, his breath hitching quietly. "This sucks," he muttered, looking everywhere but at Sam. "There aren't even words to describe how much this sucks."

Sam offered a small, hopeful smile. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

o0O0o

FEBUARY

One week after Dean's birthday, John choked on his cheeseburger.

Dean leapt into action, pounding on his father's back as John bent forward over the table. The other patrons stared in awe and concern, the waitresses asked if they should call an ambulance. John coughed and gagged, the veins on his neck and temple standing out sharply as he struggled to draw breath.

"Dad, calm down," Dean ordered, pushing Sam out of the way. He moved behind his father, wrapped his arms around John's chest, and pulled sharply against the soft spot at the bottom of John's sternum. "Come on, cough it up," he growled, performing the Heimlich once more.

Sam stood to the side, watching with the same wide-eyed expression as everyone else.

On the third try, John coughed up a clump of slimy, half-chewed food. He drew in a deep, ragged breath before the rest of the diner erupted in applause. Ignoring the noise, Dean settled John onto the cushion and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Take it easy. Just breathe. Come on, Dad. Calm down."

As John struggled for composure, Dean glanced at Sam.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked, looking for all the world like he was the sole survivor of a mass killing.

John reached for his glass of water with trembling hands and Dean intercepted, dropping a straw into the glass before holding it out. "Here. Drink slow. You okay now?"

John nodded, then put the straw between his lips and drank.

Their audience was beginning to dissipate and Sam returned to his own chair, leaning in close. "Dr. Stevens said to watch out for difficulty swallowing. He said that-"

"I know what he said, Sam," Dean snapped, still watching John. "I was there, remember? This isn't that. This was just a fluke. He's fine. Look at him… he's fine. Just forget it."

o0O0o

APRIL

By Easter morning, John could no longer get out of bed on his own.

o0O0o

MAY

Sam spent most of his birthday sitting alone in the grass at Lakeview City Park. They couldn't afford presents and there wasn't much to celebrate anyway. Their father no longer recognized them.

Today was just one day closer to the inevitable.

o0O0o

JUNE

They wanted to blame it on the heat. Because really- _nobody_ liked to carry on long-winded conversations when it was 100 degrees. Sweat dripped down their backs quick as raindrops and the humidity threatened to drown them. They were reduced to lying in air conditioned hotel rooms, soaking up cool air and mindless television. It was miserable.

But the truth of the matter was much more unbearable.

John Winchester was reduced to one syllable words and hand gestures.

Their names were now 'Hey, you' and 'Kid'. 'Food' meant he was hungry, 'Go' meant he needed to relieve himself (that one wasn't used very much), and 'Sleep' meant he was tired. Moving him required both Sam and Dean. Everything he ate had to be smaller than their pinky or soft. During the day, John was taken to the restroom every two hours. At night, Sam dressed him in Depends. Every other night, they alternated giving him sponge baths. Their father had become bedridden, completely dependant on the sons he no longer knew.

Sam couldn't remember the last time one of them smiled.

o0O0o

JULY

Dean leaned against the rusty balcony railing, eyes glued to the bursts of neon colors in the sky. He imagined he could imitate the fireworks, just shoot up into the sky and explode into a thousand tiny fragments. Escape, go somewhere he wouldn't have to watch his father deteriorate before his eyes. This long, slow death was more painful than he ever imagined. It was not how a Winchester should die- not how their father should die. John was their rock, their compass, their leader. He was their father, and he deserved to go out in a blaze of glory.

Instead, his flame was slowly reaching the end of the wick, flickering slowly, helplessly, before it vanished all together.

Dean dropped his head, letting it hang between tense shoulders. Overhead, the Independence Day celebration continued on.

"Dean? Get in here!"

Dean drew in a breath, steeling himself, then pushed away from the railing. "What?"

He passed through the dirty sliding glass door. Inside, Sam was hovering over their father, who was asleep on his back. "He okay?" Dean asked, stopping across from Sam.

"Something's wrong. He's got a rash… or something."

Sam looked at him with large, scared eyes and Dean threw up his mask of indifference. "Okay, where? Let me see it."

Sam gave him a look, then, and Dean felt a wave of apprehension wash through him. Before he could question it, Sam pulled back the thin sheet, then pulled up the right leg of John's boxers. "Look," he said, pointing at their father's genitals, "See? I think he should see a doctor."

Morbid fascination gave Dean the courage to stare at his father's most private parts. He and Sam had been exposed before; modesty had abandoned them with the first sponge bath. But staring openly at the red, raw blisters festering in the folds of his father's skin threatened to drop him. Dean tore his gaze away, making sure John was still sleeping before looking at Sam.

"Okay, I see it. Cover him up."

"There's more," Sam said as he pulled the sheet up to John's chest. "In between his toes. And I think he has a bladder infection. He's practically urinating none-stop and it looks like it hurts him."

"How long?"

"I don't know. The blisters weren't there when I bathed him last."

Dean nodded once, solemnly, and moved to his duffle bag. "I'll call Dr. Stevens. He's out of the office now, but I'll leave a message. We'll leave early tomorrow."

"Okay."

As Dean listened to the prerecorded message, he glanced back at Sam. "Good job," he offered, not liking the slump in his little brother's shoulders.

Sam looked up, hollow eyes staring right through Dean, and flashed the fakest grin Dean had ever seen. "Thanks."

The machine beeped over the phone line and with a heavy heart, Dean turned away.

"Hi, this is Dean Winchester, calling to get my father an appointment with Dr. Stevens…"

o0O0o

AUGUST

The day they checked him into the nursing home, it was pouring down rain. It was a blessing, really, because their tears blended in with the raindrops.

Dean pulled up next to the curb, ignoring the stripe of yellow paint, and opened his door. Together, he and Sam slid/pushed John over to the passenger side. Dean rounded the car, the engine grumbling softly under the booms of thunder, and helped Sam bring John to his feet.

They moved as fast as they could, carrying their father between them as they ran for the protection of the dark green awning. Dean kicked open the door and maneuvered them inside, where someone finally presented a wheelchair. He helped Sam lower their father into it, then took a look around as he flexed the kink from his back.

The tile floors shone brightly under the multitude of fluorescent lights. Breathing skeletons sat unmoving in their wheelchairs, parked at odd angles against the cream-colored wall. Straight-faced nurses moved with determination, eyeing the brothers warily as they passed. At the end of the hall sat a large medicine cart, and a heavy-set nurse poured four different colored pills into a tiny paper cup then disappeared into a room.

"Can I help you?"

Dean turned in the direction of the voice, coming face to face with a stony-faced receptionist. "Uh, yeah. I'm Dean Winchester, this is Sam. We're here to check in my Dad." He swallowed a mouthful of hot bile.

"Follow me."

She brushed past them and Dean glanced at Sam.

"We have to do this," Sam said, but his wide, dark eyes betrayed his strong voice.

Dean took the handles of the wheelchair. "Yeah. Come on."

They followed the clip-clop of high heels on tile and found themselves next to a doorway labeled 'Admissions'.

"You can go on it. I paged Cindy, she'll be here in a moment to help you with the paperwork."

And then she turned and left, her heels echoing as she disappeared.

Dean took a deep breath and led them inside the office.

Once they were settled in the fat leather chairs, John placed in between them, Dean rubbed the drying raindrops into his skin. Sam leaned over, silently brushing the wet hair out of John's eyes. Dean crossed his legs. He must have stepped in a puddle; the bottom hem of his jeans was soaking wet and pulled on his leg hair. He sighed, Sam straightened and ran a hand through his own wet hair, and Dean realized it was longer than he'd ever seen it.

"Nice painting," Sam muttered, jutting his chin at the crappy painting of a sunny corn field.

Dean shifted his weight.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Cindy announced as she breezed into the small office. "Some weather we're having, huh? I hope you didn't get too wet on your way in."

A drop of rain trickled down the back of Dean's ear and he shivered.

"Well let's get started, shall we?" she continued, sitting behind the desk and opening a drawer. "I've prepared the paperwork and done all the prerequisite leg work." She dropped a two-inch stack of papers onto the desk. "I'll just need you to look over this and sign at the appropriate places. Let's get started, shall we?" She slid the stack over to them, smiling brightly.

Dean stared at it, trying to gather the energy.

An hour later, they were down to the last five pages.

"I'll need your initials next to this top line if your father is a DNR, or choose one of these options below if you want us to take life-preserving measures."

It took a moment for the words to sink in; after all, his brain was mostly numb by now. Dean stared at the page, pen resting lightly in his heavy fingers. "Wait- what?"

Cindy faltered, stumbling over her words as she repeated herself. "Oh- sorry. DNR means do not resuscitate. If your father were to… stop breathing, how hard would you want us to fight?" She looked at them, waiting.

"I know what it means," Dean replied. "We have to decide this right now?"

"You mean you haven't already?"

Dean looked at Sam. "I don't want Dad hooked up to a bunch of machines," he said. "I don't want to keep him alive just for the sake of it. I won't prolong his suffering. He wouldn't want that."

"Me neither," Sam replied.

And it was the first thing they agreed on in a month.

o0O0o

SEPTEMBER

September 24th, he stopped eating on his own.

He slipped from being non-verbal to non-responsive.

In essence, John Winchester was already dead.

Sam and Dean sat on opposite sides of the bed, taking turns holding his hand, offering ice chips, reading from whatever book or magazine was lying around. They played videos of sunshine and singing birds, trying to get him to focus on something positive, something soothing. Stimulate his senses, the nurses said. Remind him of happy things.

Problem was, Dean and Sam didn't know what happy was anymore.

o0O0o

OCTOBER

Halloween night, the nursing home opened its doors to a pet parade. Costumed dogs and their owners went from room to room, visiting each patient while carrying plastic buckets of candy. Sam had seen most of the animals before- they were registered therapy animals that usually came to the nursing home every Wednesday night. It was mildly entertaining to see the calm, gentle pets dressed up as pumpkins and skunks and bumble bees. He smiled as his favorite golden retriever entered the room, tail wagging, sporting an elaborate Frankenstein costume.

The dog sat at John's bedside, an orange plastic pumpkin bucket swinging softly under his chin.

Sam reached in the bucket and grabbed a packet of small candies, holding it up in John's line of sight. "Look what Ralph brought you, Dad. You want some candy?"

If John understood, he gave no reaction.

Sam met Dean's gaze and let his hand fall. "Maybe later, then."

The dog whistled quietly and Sam felt the silky smooth hair that lay over the dog's neck. "Thanks anyway," he said, glancing at the plump, quiet woman on the other end of the leash.

"We better get going, Ralph," she said quietly. Then she locked gazes with Sam. "You boys have a nice Halloween," she smiled. "And please, eat some candy. You two look like you haven't had a good meal in months."

As she and Ralph walked out, one of the night nurses, Megan, walked in.

"Good evening boys," she greeted, going straight for the medical chart at the foot of John's bed. "You're not in costume."

"Sure we are," Dean said flatly. "We're dressed as two guys whose father is dying. Pretty life-like, huh?"

Megan looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Dean," Sam reprimanded softly.

She blinked, then moved deftly about the room, as if walking on eggshells. "We have some cookies in the break room. I can bring you some."

"No thanks," Sam replied. "I'm good."

Megan looked at Dean, seemingly afraid to open her mouth.

"No," Dean grunted. "Thanks."

Megan turned her attention to John. She peeled back the blankets, exposing his skeletal, bruised body. Small bedsores were forming on the prominent points of his hip bones. She applied an opaque cream gently, then set the tube on the nightstand. "Help me turn him?" she asked.

Dean rose first, sliding his hands under John's shoulder blades. Megan handled his legs, and together, they turned John onto his side. Sam found himself staring into his father's empty eyes.

"Thanks," Megan said. She made a note in the chart, put it back in its holder, then moved to the doorway. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. You guys going home soon?"

Sam shrugged. They never really left. Part of him always stayed behind, suffering in the uncomfortable chair at John's bedside. "Yeah. Thanks."

She left, and the room became dark and cold once more.

o0O0o

NOVEMBER

The next day, Dean sat next to the window in John's room, his legs crossed and a hardcover book on his lap. Sam sat across from him, one hand absently rubbing circles on the back of his father's hand as he watched the nursing home staff take down all the Halloween decorations. His neck was stiff from the lumpy motel mattress and barely-there pillow. The shower water never got warm enough and Sam swore the place was infested with cockroaches. But the price was right and the manager didn't ask questions.

John was staring at the ceiling, his breathing raspy and shallow, in… out… in… out, the tandem slow and steady. Next to Sam, an IV dripped nutrients down a length of clear tubing. It was the only life-preserving measure they agreed to.

Dean was reading steadily, like he was actually following the plot. The book was about a clumsy magician who got into extreme situations with Luggage, a trunk with a hundred feet. The book took place on a flat, disc-like world that was balanced on the backs of four elephants that stood on a giant turtle as it hurtled through space.

Sam rolled his eyes. It was exactly the type of novel his brother would enjoy.

He watched Dean read, his bloodshot eyes moving quickly over the words, his foot bouncing gently as if on its own accord. His voice was smooth and continuous, barely pausing as he turned the page. His hair had gotten longer, his face paler and thinner, and his leather jacket seemed one size too big.

Sam sighed softly. They were neglecting themselves. Months of living out of vending machines had shrunk them, months of watching their father waste away wore them down. Sam was tired all the time, no matter how long he slept. Conversation between them was minimal. It had been ages since Dean cracked a poorly-timed one-liner. Even longer since they had something to smile about. He had hurt for so long, Sam feared he was numb now.

He blinked, feeling the way John's thin skin moved under his thumb. His father's eyes were dull, his skin almost translucent. His muscles had melted away, revealing every bone in his once-solid body. His hair was thin and greasy; tonight was bath night. One tube carrying liquid food entered his body, one tube carrying urine led out. Dean's words faded as Sam focused on his father's breathing. Raspy inhalation, gurgling exhalation. In, out, in, out. Slowly, steadily. In, out, in, out…

Sam sat up a little straighter, waiting for his father's chest to rise.

His own heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Sam's own breathing stopped.

He felt something then, a part of him dropped away, immediately filled with coldness.

"Dean," he whispered, leaning a little closer, his hand still gripping his father's tightly.

Dean glanced up and did a double take, staring at Sam.

Tears filled his eyes and Sam wasn't sure if they were from grief or relief. His throat closed, his heart burned in his chest.

They stared at each other over the still body.

o0O0o

THREE DAYS LATER

A light snow danced around them, the small crystalline flakes floating on a barely-there wind. It dusted their hair, their shoulders, the grass and the gravestone. The frigid air burned his nostrils and Sam sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his wrist, pretending the weather was the only cause of his runny nose.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the small, nondescript stone. All the appropriate precautions taken care of, they agreed that the remains should be buried next to their mother. It was, after all, where John always wanted to be.

There were no flowers, no witnesses. No ceremonies. Just two brothers, a plastic container of ashes, a couple shovels, prayers, and a gray sky.

Sam stared at the freshly turned dirt, his vision blurry and his fingers numb. Next to him, Dean stood just as steadily, just as forlornly, just as lost. Sam knew something came next- they couldn't stand here forever- but what it was, he didn't know.

At last, Dean took a deep breath. "We should go." His breath came out in white puffs.

Sam remained where he was, the tears in his eyes threatening to freeze.

"Sammy."

Sam swallowed thickly, tears hanging heavily in his eyelashes. A small part of him was relieved by it all, that it was finally over, but more than that, there was emptiness. Regret. He had wasted so much time, arguing, butting heads, going to school. He should have listened more, tried harder. He should have been a better son.

Dean's hand dropped onto his shoulder, squeezing. "Don't," he sighed.

A snowflake landed on Sam's nose and he swiped at it furiously. "Don't what?"

Dean stared at the ground, his nose red. "He was proud of you, Sam."

Sam blinked, his tears blurring but not falling. Dean's shouldn't have to offer support, and Sam would not ask for it. Not now. Not while Dean's hand was still warming his shoulder, anchoring him, grounding him. Distracting him from the raw, open wound in his empty chest. Proving that not all had been lost.

Everything was silent for a moment, only the twirling snowflakes moving about.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked. It was the most honest question he'd ever asked and he waited intently for the answer, studying Dean's profile.

Dean's hand slipped away gently and he immediately curled his arms around himself. "We pick up where we left off," Dean said, sounding more like he was asking. "Got wind of a gig a few states over. Easy." Dean shuffled his feet, twirling the point of the shovel in the fine dusting of snow. A few feet away, the Impala sparkled.

Finally Dean shifted and their gazes locked. Wide, red eyes. Tears. Pain.

And beneath it all, hope.

Confidently, Dean said in a broken voice, "Dad would have wanted it that way."

As they walked away from the grave, the sun broke free from the clouds and the snowflakes burst into flashes of silver, swirling silently around them.

o0O0o

It came upon them slowly and silently, as all skillful predators do. Fingers like black roots burrowed deeply and firmly, moving so slowly and delicately that none of them felt it happening. It waited; long, thin fingers of poison bracing itself for the moment it would seize-

But they could not be ripped apart.

END


End file.
